#It's been a little while so that's a paraphrase | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

marigoldenblooms · 1 month

Text

An Important Lesson - One-Shot

Pairing: Professor!Wanda x Fem!Reader (MINORS DNI - 18+)

Prompt: After years of rigorous study, you were nearing the end of your graduate program. Companionship had become a figment of your imagination, until your film professor caught your eye. Taking something from her desk, you hope you could catch hers- and you got more than you bargained for.

MINORS DNI - 18+

Tags: Who is Y/N I don’t know her, Dom!Wanda, Sub!Reader, Porn with plot, teasing, orgasm denial, vibrator use, thigh riding, Mommy kink, Professor kink (sparingly), no aftercare, slight dub-con, dumbification, praise, dom/sub dynamics, power imbalance (professor/student), age gap (Reader is 26 while Wanda is 34), brat taming if you squint.

A/N: Holy balls, I did not realize smut was so hard to write. Major kudos to all who seem to do it so effortlessly! I know I envy ‘em. This is my first foray into writing this kind of fic (my university’s spring break has brought a lot of writing firsts), so if you have any feedback I’d love to hear it! This is also vaguely proofread! Wanted to do some practice before the evental sex in Unica Sempter Avis (Because USA is certainly an Abbreviation of All Time), and other ideas I’ve got cooking up. I'd love to write another part to this, if y'all would be down! Thanks y'all again! Edit: An Important Lesson is getting a second part! Read a teaser here! >:)

Word Count: 2.5k - Read length: 9 minutes, 5 seconds. Pictures aren't mine, credit to their owners! ~~~

The pen hadn’t been worth stealing, and yet here you were.

Professor Maximoff’s classroom was overwhelmingly quiet, dark and empty with familiar rows of tables curved in a half arc around her desk, pushed off to the side. She’d always pace within the front few rows where you sat, and you’d have to crane your neck to keep her in view when you weren’t scribbling down paraphrases of what she said. She taught Advanced Film and Media Critique, which generally lended itself to analyzing the shit out of old TV shows. Maximoff was a difficult professor, but you weren’t looking for easy, especially in your graduate program. After a few years of working your ass off to make enough money, you’d wiped the floor with your bachelors and now you were vying for your masters, in your last few weeks of grad school. And you knew Professor Maximoff liked you, which didn’t make it so bad.

You knew other things about her too - for instance, there was no way she wasn’t a lesbian. Whenever you’d raise your hand her eyes would snap to you, and you swear her face would curl into a smile that was beyond professional. You’d catch her staring in your direction during exams on multiple occasions (to be fair you did the same when she wasn’t looking, but that’s besides the point), and you swear up and down that she winked at you during your midterm. She’d hold onto your hand a little too long when you turned in papers, and always offered ‘tutoring’ sessions which you humbly declined in the beginning of the semester, your grade being nigh perfect in her course. Between that, the short nails, tailored suits, and the rings- oh, so many rings- there was no way your professor wasn’t gay, and possibly had the hots for you. Your studies had been your priority over companionship for so long, And now, within a few weeks of your final, why not make a move?

Heist films had been the topic of last week’s lecture, and so nicking something small would be a good segway, right? You’d return it to her tomorrow after class, mention something flirty (perhaps about stealing her heart), and see where it went. If you were lucky, you’d have her number by the end of the course, and perhaps take the older woman to coffee after your final exam. You’d bring her to the movies, but that might turn into more of a lesson than a date.

As you’d pluck a pen from one of her desk drawers, you notice that it was slightly heavier than most. You clicked it once, then a second time- and nothing happened, so it went into your pockets. You’d move to exit the dim room, before a plaque caught your eye- her degree. It was neatly pressed into its frame: Wanda Maximoff, Masters of Arts in Film and Media Studies. You remembered her mentioning she was working on her doctorate, a proud grin sparking at that. Perhaps you’d get to know more about her dissertation and herself shortly. ------------------------------------------

Class went by faster than most, although it didn’t help that you were anxiously awaiting the end of Professor Maximoff’s lecture. She had worn a trim fitted sleeveless blouse and buttoned pants, both beautiful shades of burgundy. A myriad of gold rings decorating her hands as she’d motion with them through her talk. You’d have to keep your eyes off her fingers, nose deep in notebooks as you’d scramble to collect her words before your incoming final exam.

“And what is the significance of I Love Lucy’s laugh tracks?” Wanda would ponder aloud before your hand immediately shot up, the lone attempt out of your fifty or so classmates. She’d grin at you, “Yes, dear?”

You almost forget what you were about to say, holding onto the vestiges of it as you’d sputter, “Oh, uhm- yes, well, I Love Lucy didn’t have laugh tracks, mostly- they were the first sitcom to have a live studio audience.” Her eyes would crinkle with mirth, and you could tell immediately that you had the right answer. You tuned out her words as your mind would swim, thinking back to the weighted pen in your jeans pocket. The pet names were new, settling a joyous fuzz both in your mind and between your legs. It was things like this that had you on the back foot- this was your chance to get her back.

------------------------------------------

“And I’ll see you all in two days,” Wanda would return to her desk, sitting atop it rather than in the chair behind it. One of your classmates had asked why in an icebreaker towards the beginning of the semester, and if you remembered correctly she said ‘Just like the view from up here,’ or the like. If you’d been on the same track mind as now, you probably would have noticed how she stared at you during her spiel, a detail only discovered in hindsight. Now, you had all the pieces.

You pack up slowly, shimmying your belongings into your overly stuffed bag. Hanging back until there were few students left, you flag her gaze with a hand and an upturned smile, “Professor, I was wondering if I could..” Your words would halt in your throat, thoughts thickened and syrupy as she’d look down to you, head tilted a degree off kilter. Would it be embarrassing to admit you’d never been this close to her before? Her lips would be pursed, but would break into a wild grin, and you felt yourself melt right there. You weren’t a teen anymore goddamnit, focus- “Talk-” you’d squeak, clearing your throat hastily to camouflage the blunder, “Talk with you, after class. Professor.”

Her brows would raise, and you could almost see the cogs rotating in there. Her eyes would dart within the now-empty room, adjusting her position on the desk- and it’d become increasingly obvious (you can deny it no longer) that you were standing directly in between her slightly parted legs. This wasn’t how you were expecting it to go, but here you were. She’d start taking off her rings. “Of course, darling,” she’d tease again with a roughened lilt. Those damn pet names. “What do you need?”

“I think I have something of yours, Professor-” Your mouth would open a few seconds before you’d speak, and you swear she’d smirk at how she had you, devoid of any thought. Something about her had you smiling and kicking your feet, and boy did she know it. Without any further bravado, you’d pull out the pen, “I hate to say it, but I think you’ve stolen-”

“Oh,” She’d breathe, Wanda’s face tinting with a pinkish hue, yet her smile only grew larger. Her gaze would narrow, voice dripping with a sultry air that almost knocked you off balance, “I didn’t let you borrow that, did I?”

“No Professor,” you admit, beginning to launch into your story, before she’d shush you- shush you, words piling up into a lump in your throat.

“And do you know what it does, darling?” She asks, her tone a breathy whisper now. You swallow, shaking your head no. She fucking giggles. She takes the pen from your hand, clicking it three times, and it’d start to buzz. Oh, my god. It was a fucking vibrator.

“Too dumb to even recognize what this is? And I thought you were so smart..” She’d tease, a flush forming on your face in tandem with a shiver down your body. You open your mouth to speak, and yet her warm, calloused fingers would clasp your jaw shut. “Shhh, don’t want your pretty little head to even think, darling. How about Mommy show you how it works, hm?”

You’d nod immediately. She’d abandon the toy, clicking it off as her hands would slip beneath your shirt, and it felt like time had frozen. She was so soft, and your mind glazed over. Your breath hitched as she’d trail upward, palming your skin before running her fingers over your bare breasts. You’d watch as Wanda’s pupils would blow in seconds, a devious smile bubbling into view, “No bra?” She’d murmur lowly shaking her head as she’d start to knead your flesh, “Just couldn’t remember it, hm? My precious student, too busy thinking of me to get dressed, were you?” You nod again, a pitiful mewl escaping your throat.

“Yes- Yes, Professor..” You arch into her touch, although that bliss was short-lived as you feel her dig her hands further into your tits, sharper than you’d like. She’d tsk at your reply, and you look up to meet her eyes- oh, that was the wrong answer.

“Did you already forget my title, baby?” She’d ask almost tauntingly, her gaze sharpening as she’d shift her hands from your skin. You’d chase her warmth, dazed as your skin would flush and tremble, slotting yourself up against her. She’d run her thumb over your lips, crooning at your immediate submission. She could use that.

“It seems Mommy has a lot to teach you, dear..” Her touch would ghost across your exposed forearms, her feather-light touches only stuttering your breath further. “And I think you’re ready for your first lesson. Think you can handle that, darling? Keep your eyes on me,” Her hands would dig into your jeans, rougher against the hem’s fabric, “Think you can take this off for Mommy?”

“Please..” You beg, raising your hips to strip yourself bare, your glance trained on her. You don’t miss how her eyes darted down to your bare cunt, having slid off your panties too, or how she licked her lips at the sight of your slick. Her hands would hold your legs open, the cold lecture hall’s air chilling your exposed skin. Still staring at Wanda, you’d discard your shirt in the same breath, her jaw clenching as all of you felt the cool air. Feeling exposed, the urge to flee ebbed away some of your arousal. Were you really about to fuck your professor in her own classroom? Your focus was immediately drawn again as she’d capture your chin in her hand, pulling it harshly to meet her gaze. Her eyes were dilated, a thin sheen of sweat on her brow as she’d pant, both from your disobedience and your thighs rubbing against hers. “Look at me,” she’d hiss, taking your lips into a searing kiss. Your answer? Fuck. Yes.

Your cunt would grind against her leg as Wanda would pull your hips up and onto her thigh, grip bruising as your lips would crash together. You could smell her vanilla perfume as she’d tug at your bottom lip with her teeth, a familiar buzzing sound heard but not registered before you felt it on your clit. “Mommy- yes, Fuckin’ christ, there-” You’d keen, lurching back as Wanda’s hand would rest on your hip, keeping you from escaping her touch.

Wanda would groan at your words, voice a little breathier as her hips would stutter against yours, “There’s my good girl..” Teasingly, she’d circle your clit with the pen-shaped toy, gasping herself as she’d feel the aftershocks of its pulse on her clothed cunt. “Taking Mommy’s toy so well..such a sweet girl for your Professor-”

You’d rock your hips against her, the friction from her dress slacks and the vibrator’s pulse bringing you to the edge embarrassingly quick. Wanda wouldn’t notice your frenzied breathing or how you lost your rhythm, but she would hear your words; drawn between husky whines, “Mommy, please, I’m so close, fuck-” Your face would flush, legs beginning to tremble before the whole feeling was ripped away from you, Wanda’s grip leaving as the buzz would click off. With shaky breaths, your eyes would rise to meet hers- only to see a teasing grin. She’d pat your arms, gently coaxing you off of her thigh, the few sparks of friction from that not enough to bring you anywhere close to your release. You’d blink, thoughts thickened and reeling, brow furrowed ever so slightly for her- and Wanda loved it.

“You did so well for your first lesson, dear..” She’d croon, brushing herself off as she’d rise to her feet, leaving you on her cluttered desk. “But, Professor, I didn’t-” You’d begin and she’d silence you right there, hand rising to close your jaw shut again.

“And you won’t come unless you call me by my title, darling. You’ve received your correction for your first mistake- and for stealing from me,” You nodded slowly, absorbing her words as though they were molasses, and her smile only widened at how dazed she’d made you. “And if you disobey again when you’re with me, alone- then I’ll lower your grade by five points. Understand?”

If you were in any kind of fog before, you cleared it from your thoughts immediately. “Yes, very clear- uhm,” You pause, noticing the stain on her pant leg where your pussy had ground into the fabric, and you feel your face warm. Wanda would shift her stance and you’d look up- she leaned above you, a single brow raised. You’d swallow, keeping your eyes on her completely, “Yes, Mommy- I understand.”

“Good girl.” That was the right answer. She’d smile at you, her praise going straight to your cunt. Could she not have given you a few more seconds? Maybe you could’ve gotten off without her noticing. She’d interrupt your mind with a quick peck on the lips, and you felt your wits slow, swimming with thoughts of her mouth. Oh, that was why- couldn’t get away with anything if you didn’t think anything at all. Wanda’s grin would only intensify as she’d watch you dress, clothing rumpled from the haste it had been taken off. After a few minutes, you were back to prim and proper..besides your racing heart and flush whenever Wanda so much as moved. “This was great..” You’d murmur, pressing the wrinkles from your shirt, gaze flicking back up to Wanda’s- your professor still watching you with a smooth, secretive smirk.

“Of course it was, dear..but it’s still nice to hear you say that. Anything for my best student,” She’d wink at you and you’d fold, feeling your palms clam up. Since when were you this weak in the knees? She’d settle at her desk again, her hands clasped together on its wooden grain. You’d be taller than her now, with her sitting down- and yet there was an aura she commanded that you couldn’t outdo. You turn to leave without any further fanfare but her voice would seize you again, just as warm as her touch. “I’ll be expecting you after tomorrow’s classes, then? I think some…after-hours remedial work for my course would do you well.”

Were you really about to fuck your professor in her own classroom, again? You’d leave her hall with a bright smile, a reply, and a secret. Your answer? The same as before - Fuck. Yes.

And your secret?

You’d stolen the ‘pen’ again.

#bearrrwrites #minors dni #wanda maximoff x fem!reader #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff #wanda smut #dom!wanda #sub!reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff x y/n #college au #one shot #smut fic #wlw ns/fw #god why was this so hard #once again #fuck it we ball

779 notes · View notes

sexhaver · 7 months

Note

it's so cool to see you being openly atheist because i remember for a while back in the 2010s other "social justice" posters could get Weird about that. did you ever come across that one post with tons of notes claiming the only valid reason for atheism was religious trauma

you mean this little chestnut?

not only have i "come across" it, i have critiqued that post specifically multiple times, and every time i do, someone who wasn't on here at the time accuses me of paraphrasing it or even lying about its existence entirely. that post and "Culture is about identity, community and family. It’s about tradition. It is not and has never been about “sharing”" are really the poster children for tumblr discourse: flagrant right-wing/reactionary ideology wrapped up in socially conscious language getting 6-digit notes with 0 pushback

2K notes · View notes

notjustjavierpena · 1 month

Text

Five Minutes

A/N: As promised, y’all. Thanks to @strang3lov3 and @angelofsmalldeath-codeine for always helping me improve my work ❤️💖 Just to put it out there: The translations aren’t always literal but paraphrased to maintain context.

Summary: Lucien kisses you outside during your house party and puts his hand under your dress.

Pairing: Lucien Flores x reader (no y/n)

Tags: Teasing/banter, pet names, passionate kisses, groping, dirty talk, over panty clit stim, degradation, slight verbal humiliation, overstimulation, bit of exhibitionism

Word count: 1.8k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54514960

Five Minutes

Your head is swimming with how close Lucien is. His breath tickles your skin when he talks, ghosts over your ear as he noses along the side of your head. In the smoke-filled room where the floor shakes from the music playing, you can smell his cologne on him. He is velvety soft when he speaks, enchanting you, “Let’s get out of here, just for a second.”

“We can’t,” you turn your head a little and look up at him through your lashes, “It’s my party, baby.”

“I don’t care,” he nods towards the open screen door in your living room, “When everyone is distracted, we could slip out. Nobody will notice.”

“That their host is gone?” You tut in disbelief, “Luce…”

“Corazón (honey),” he mimics your tone of voice, “They’re too busy to notice us leaving for a few minutes.”

“Oh, it’s a few minutes now? It was getting out of here a second ago,” you tease him playfully. In reality, you have already decided to give in and all he has to do is drag you away from the crowds. You won’t protest.

“I feel like we’re throwing out a lot of terms about time on the table here,” he grins against your forehead, having moved slightly to hold you close. His arms rest along the small of your back.

“I’ll give you, hmm,” you pretend to think, “Five minutes. Is that satisfactory?”

“I’ll give you satisfactory,” he unwraps himself from you to grab your wrist. You giggle as he drags you through the loud house, slipping the both of you out of the half-open door to your backyard.

The air inside was oppressive; smoke-filled, hot, and with a distinct smell of alcohol. The air outside however is filled with mischief and adventure, your garden smelling of freshly-cut grass and blooming lilacs. Lucien’s hand slips down your wrist so he can entwine your fingers, his hand sure in its grip when he guides you past a group of people who are talking loudly. He hadn’t been wrong; no one seems to notice you passing by as they are all too invested in their conversations. Lucien would probably phrase it that they have their heads too far up their asses.

He leads you to the wall of your house that is enshrouded in darkness now that the sun is no longer shining. The chatter from your guests fades into background noise, replaced by the cicadas singing in the night breeze and a gentle rustling of the leaves on the trees.

As soon as you become your only witnesses, Lucien backs you up against the rough exterior of your house. He cups your face with gentle, calloused hands, and then suddenly, he kisses you deeply and forces you to do a sharp intake of air through your nose. It is like he tries to be soft and sweet but there’s something more behind the way his lips meet yours, and he easily slides his tongue into your mouth because you cannot help but moan at the taste of him.

His thumb goes down your cheek, settles on your chin to pull your mouth open so he can lick hotly into it. You place your hands on his shoulders to dig your fingers into the muscles there, then tilt your head to meet him even more while desire pools in your belly.

The hand that isn’t holding your mouth open for him slides down to rest on your shoulder. However, it moves quickly to grope obscenely at your chest over the fabric of your dress and you let him as his thumb brushes over a nipple. It stiffens immediately despite the indirect touch.

The moan you let out turns into a snicker that interrupts you. Lucien’s fingers have slipped under the dress strap on your shoulder and he tries pulling it off. You shake your head while laughing quietly, “No, Luce, c’mon.”

“But you have such pretty tits,” he argues with almost a raspy whine whilst you pull the strap back in place, “Necesito sentirte (I need to feel you).”

“That’s very nice and all but I don’t need the whole party to see my breasts,” you bump your head slightly against the wall when Lucien’s head descends to kiss your neck, “You’re gonna have to get creative, I’m not going to strip in my garden like I’m in my teens.”

As he noses along your pulse point, both his palms skim down your sides and eventually cup your ass with lewd hands. You think that might be it, but suddenly his fingers bunch up the fabric of your skirt only to pull it upwards so he can slide his hand underneath it. You gasp as he drapes his palm over your whole mound on top of your underwear.

“You’re certainly determined,” you say breathlessly as he grinds the heel of his hand into your clit. More blood goes south. You reach for his hair to pull his mouth to yours again, moaning as he guides two digits over your clothed slit.

“You’ve put me on the clock here,” he replies between kisses, voice a mere growl, “I don’t think I need much time though, do you? You’re sticky through your pretty panties already.”

He moves his hand to run his knuckle over the damp patch on the fabric, pulling away from the kiss to show off the shiny knuckle between your faces whilst he holds the skirt of your dress in his free hand to keep it from falling down again. He smirks in a self-satisfied manner and your mouth falls open in aroused surprise when he sucks the slick off his digit, “Tienes un coño precioso, mi amor, sabes tan dulce (You’ve got a pretty pussy, my love, you taste so sweet).”

“Lucien,” you breathe.

“That made you say my whole name, huh?” He grins boyishly but he is more filthy than anyone knows.

“Touch me,” you look down between the two of you briefly and then find his gaze again, your eyes becoming heavy as the anticipation settles in the evening air. Without a word, his hand finds its way down between your legs again. You widen your stance slightly, open your legs for him.

Your eyebrows scrunch together when he skims his palm over the soft skin right below your belly button. He teases you for a moment, dipping his fingers underneath the waistband of your underwear before letting them remain on top once again. He finds your clit easily despite it being covered - it’s so hard that he cannot miss it - and presses his index- and middle finger on it. He rubs your cunt in torturous circles and suddenly, the whole world seems to close in on you.

You spread your legs as wide as this position will allow you. Lucien chuckles quietly at your desperation, covers your mouth with his own as you pant with each little pulse of pleasure that he beckons from you.

His fingers shift between featherlight touches to just the right amount of pressure, sending you through a rollercoaster of arousal. You know the white cotton underneath his ministrations is see-through by now, messy and wet from the way your whole cunt flutters and clenches in the absence of anything he is willing to give you. You gush every now and then, and he groans into your mouth each time he feels his palm soak.

“Put your fingers in me,” you beg when it becomes especially unbearable but he doesn’t.

“I don’t think you need the whole party to see this pretty pussy, it’s mine,” he mocks your argument from earlier and pecks your lips impossibly soft compared to how he is treating your clit, “You’ll have to make do with what I give you, mi flor (my flower). I don’t care if you start begging me like a wanton little whore.”

“That’s so unfair,” you whimper as the first tells of your orgasm approaches. Lucien notices immediately and pulls his head back a little to watch your blissed-out expression. He circles in on your clit even further to make you cry softly, biting down on your bottom lip so you won’t alert anyone nearby.

“Shut up and come for me,” he is too pleased with himself. He can probably feel your cunt throbbing against his fingers when you finally do, doing a sharp intake of air as pleasure starts flowing through your lower body. You let it wash over yourself, clenching walls pushing more slick out to wet the thin fabric. If you had time, you would have told him to have a peek.

“You are so fucking cheap and easy,” he reminds you with a sleazy grin but you are too lost to coming from his fingers that you fumble for the right retort and decide to say nothing. Instead, you try not to lose your balance as he keeps stroking your oversensitive pussy until you have to grab at his wrist.

He bites at your jaw, stronger than you ever will be, and keeps up his torture over your panties. You are forced to come again less than thirty seconds later, and now, you start to actually cry out to the point where he has to kiss you quiet again.

You cling to him when he finally stops. He is your anchor in this state of mind-altering dopamine rush.

“You don’t even know how hard you make me,” he whispers against your lips, “Should drag you to the bathroom and fuck you stu—“

In the aftermath, two guests, much younger than him, round the corner. They are deep in drunken conversation, all giggly and eager, and appear to be searching for a quiet spot to do the same thing as you have just done. With a rush of adrenaline that clears your mind, you push Lucien away and yank your dress back down, smoothing out the fabric to remove any evidence that it has been crumpled by desperate hands, something that Lucien points out is only visible to your eyes before the intruders are within earshot.

“Oh, sorry,” one of them says as the other kisses their neck. They try to bat the other away with an embarrassed smile, “We didn’t know you were out here.”

Lucien wraps his arm around your waist and leads you away with his cock shamelessly straining against the front of his slacks. He smiles at the couple and they offer their bottle of wine to him as an apology. He takes a swig from it but doesn’t give it back.

“That’s okay, how could you have known?” He begins the lie, “We’ve only been gone for five minutes.”

FOLLOW @notjustjavierpena-fics AND TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS 💖❤️💖❤️

#lucien flores #lucien flores x reader #lucien flores x you #the uninvited #pedro pascal characters #lucien flores smut #my writing #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal

515 notes · View notes

stormsbourne · 5 months

Text

alright listen

I know we're all having an evaluation of how eagerly we believe people who present with even the slightest air of authority and frankly good! we all need to be less credulous of people on the internet who tell lies.

but I think there are also other lessons to learn from james somerton. namely about his raging and blatant misogyny, which I've often seen similar forms of in fandom and on this specific site. to paraphrase bombs himself in the ctrl alt del video, if you see shitty behavior within your sphere, it's important to recognize it and try to fix it instead of rejecting it and asserting that no REAL members of the ingroup are like that. and nerds have a misogyny problem. including tumblr. so let's reckon with it.

do you append "white" or "straight" to your comments about women even when those things have little to do with the topic being discussed, just to make your comments seem more legit? (and no, m/m shipping discourse does not give you a ticket to say it's all straight women -- it's fictional characters, james.) do you often theorize about how (hurriedly appended "straight/white/cis") women are responsible for a problem in fandom, nay, all problems in fandom? have you made up a guy based on a single post that annoyed you and extrapolated to say that all (appended signifier to make it ok) women in fandom are like that? do you see women as uniquely fetishizing, uniquely stupid about politics or social issues, uniquely annoying to talk to? do you assume when there's an issue, even a real one and not the fake ones james made up, that a woman is probably at the root of it?

all of this still applies to you if you're a woman. it also applies if you're gay or a person of color or trans. being an oppressed group doesn't mean you are immune from sexism, and sexism is still rampant in everyday life for pretty much everyone.

your shipping and fandom discourse isn't immune from this. no, I'm not talking about how not enough people like yuri. I'm talking about how women who like "bad" ships like r*ylo or whatever are seen as open targets for harassment. how women who are into "bad/problematic" fandoms are seen as idiots and enablers who deserve what they get. how there's an attitude that women who like shitty bad porn must think it's good, must be too stupid to know better, and must need to be handheld and taught about good, acceptable fiction. I've already talked a lot about tumblr's complete refusal to admit that fujoshi wasn't a term coined by delicate japanese mlm to complain about evil women (and I wonder if james contributed to that idiotic concept), but the way I've seen people assert that women into m/m must be straight, must be stupid, must be lying about their identities, must be hurting gay men in real life in addition to wanting some anime boys to kiss ...

I've seen how some of you people talk about amb*r h*ard, is all I'm saying, and I've seen what you've tried to do to dozens of female creatives that, for some reason, you've decided deserve to be taken down or taught a lesson. I've seen the descriptions you use. shrieking, bitchy, whiny, uppity, shrewish, karen (don't get me started on how karen has been turned into an easy excuse for misogyny). you're not bystanders to what james did and is doing, you're a part of it. sure, you might not have the nazi fetish, but you've said things about women that put somerton to shame.

just a thing to keep in mind while the plagiarism discourse is ongoing. somerton is a shithead for many reasons but this is one that's important to remember because I think people often treat misogyny like a lesser crime, a smaller concern, and it's not. just think of what laws are passing and what views popular movements have of women and then, for one moment, consider that maybe your reflexive need to blame women or pick them apart might have been influenced by the Society In Which We Live.

#james somerton #hbomberguy

742 notes · View notes

minhosblr · 3 months

Text

Disclaimer: This is all for fun and I love Minho. He's just my little guy with the love language of cooking for his members, making sure they're wellfed and paying for their food without caring about the price. He helps them with dance and looks for things they ask him to look for. He loves cats and plays with the strays. I love my little guy, so this is just for fun!!

*I paraphrased some of these, and used my own translations for some (I mean technically translations are always paraphrasing, right?), so these might not be his exact words (they're not. He said them in Korean, I wrote them in English).

#maja talks #stray kids #lee know #all for fun no harm!!!!#he loves his members and they love him and i love him #maja asks

501 notes · View notes

hwaightme · 4 months

Text

Impressionism

(masterlist) (taglist)

🩸 pairing: vampire!gallerist/collector!seonghwa x art historian!gn!reader 🩸 genre: fluff, noir, soulmates, supernatural, strangers(?) to lovers, art nerding 🩸 summary: a post-graduate student specialising in impressionism, you were a regular visitor to the many art galleries in the city. who knew that among the paintings you would encounter your favourite, timeless work of art? 🩸 wordcount: 12.3k 🩸 warnings/tags: questionable editing, mention of blood, fangs, wounds, suggestive, many pet names (love, darling etc), art theory/history ponderings, time skips, mention of rituals, philosophy, hwa is centuries-old, yearning hwa 🩸 taglist: at the bottom of the fic 🩸 a/n: happy birthday to @starrysvn!! lheo, ilysm, and i hope you enjoy this little rambling <3 hugs to everyone, all reblogs, notes and comments appreciated! 🩸 playlist: nfwmb - hozier, who is she? - i monster, keep on loving you - cas, la vie en rose - edith piaf, a l'ombre de nous - pierre barouh, les feuilles mortes / sous le ciel de paris - yves montand, moon over bourbon street / until - sting

‘Love and Pain’ - an enigmatic masterpiece that was painted by Edvard Munch, the famous Norwegian artist, in 1895. In vibrant oil paints a dramatic scene interpreted by millions as something more sensual, darker, revealing was immortalised. Perhaps quite literally. You leaned back on one hand, feeling the coolness of the bench located in the middle of the gallery hall, careful to not let the notebook in your hands slip from your lap. ‘Vampire’ - first, it was a label for the woman with the alluring, long red locks that was leaning over her supposed lover, then it turned into a second name for the work. It was comical how Munch himself had initially stated the piece depicted nothing more than a woman kissing the neck of a man, and yet, the tale had told itself. What followed were six versions of this same subject, with a woodcut titled “Vampyr II”, followed by paintings titled ‘Vampire’ and ‘Vampire in the Forest’, and then through common acceptance that this indeed was the ‘submission of a man to the bite of a vampire’, if you were to paraphrase a critic who had been in an astoundingly similar position as you, except without the decades upon decades of other material to refer to. They had been the firstcomers, the initial perceivers to set the tone for society’s consumption of the artwork, the louder of the many voices in the artwork who often had the final say. In some senses, they were your long lost colleagues - they were there to create history, and you were there to study it.

While it was not exactly a part of the movement you had decided to specialise in, you nonetheless would never reject the opportunity to learn more about the stunning world of visual arts, trying to guess how the artist had felt in the moment, what did they see beyond what they presented to the world, how did they translate the heart into brushstrokes. You were taken by all forms of art since you were little - having grown up surrounded by items that were far removed from what you called your air, you were intrigued by anything that was external to your version of ordinary. In your case, it just so happened to be the little private gallery that you had spent almost all of your monthly allowance to visit when you were a school kid - you had been so dedicated, in fact, that the elderly guard who had often also acted as a guide to the visitors had become your first friend in the art world, something of a grandparent figure, and on multiple occasions - when the lack of eyes would allow, simply let you through with a grin and glance out of the entrance doors.

And so here you were, many years later, many hard decisions and conversations behind you, regarding artworks with an unprecedented soulful closeness that you had initially thought was unattainable. Had you believed all those who remained outside of the walls of your personal paradise, you would have been immersed in the same cycle that had been drilled into the majority of your family members, except maybe a handful who you had never met for the exact reason that they had chosen something for themselves. But you regarded your dream as the thorned path - undoubtedly more challenging, not immediately fruitful, but in the long run leading to the heaven of your design. What more could you ask for?

It was enjoyable to be alone with the paintings surrounding you, portals to new realms that any visitor could have the pleasure of exploring. And what was even more inspiring, was that in the eye of every beholder was a different universe, and no matter who one would speak to, their version of the painting would be different, even if just slightly. You huffed, amused. When was the last time you had visited a gallery with anyone else? You could not quite recall - it was likely that you had never seeked company from another because you were more than satisfied with the company of the legendary works that were regarding you from the many walls. It was possible to compose oneself, spend limitless time on every piece, study the details, and drift into one’s own musings when there was no one to ground them. This was when you dared to say you got your best work done. Even though you, of course, conducted research within university and ventured out to galleries, museums, collectors or auctions only within professional bounds, the bulk of the thinking process was carried out in times such as this. When it was just you, your notebook and pen, and a new point of focus. However, this time, you could not say you were fully attentive to the painting that you had decided to focus on, as a certain someone was appearing to share your level of interest in ‘Love and Pain’ too.

A gentleman who could not be much older or younger than you, at most a couple of years, stood off to the right of the bench, unmoving, gaze fixated on the painting. Dressed in a pinstripe navy suit, light blue dress shirt, lacquered dress shoes and a matching navy tie, he was nothing short of being a moving work of art. Hints of a glimmer from his thin framed, elegant silver spectacles gave the man a scholarly aura, while the slicked back dark hair - evidently a lot longer than the styling would suggest, added notes of business, entrepreneurship, perhaps leadership. Nothing was out of place, not a crease, not an exposed thread in sight. Needless to say, your curiosity had been sparked.

Much like you found joy in exploring creations in the realm of the visual arts, you were fond of crafting stories about the people who were strangers in passing. You could not help it; perhaps this affinity for creative internal ramblings had come as a package with studying the degree you had selected, or perhaps this was a naturally occurring guilty pleasure that you simply had not had the chance to entertain before you cut yourself off from expectations and predetermined patterns of thought. But now, you had the full pleasure of wondering, letting your mind travel to lands far away as you took the real life masterpiece in, and pondered why the man could be here, what he could be thinking as he studied Munch’s work, and what resonated with him, and only him.

There was a melancholia with the weight of centuries resting upon his shoulders, that much you could decipher in the stranger’s stance. Even then, there was a gentle burning flame within his heart judging by just how dedicated he was to inspecting the artwork. Like he was seeing an old friend for the first time in years, and was attempting to memorise them anew and recognise each change, bit by bit. You suppressed a chuckle, entertaining the possibility of this man finding a kinship with the painting, but chose to set the idea aside for the time being, instead focusing on sketching his emotional landscape. Was the stranger remorseful? Lonely? Perplexed? You could not quite pinpoint the answer, at least not before you noticed the man’s head starting to turn, and soon enough, his eyes were peering into your own.

They were two pools of deep chocolate, an all-consuming shade that, due to the ever so slightly dimmer lights than in the general halls of the gallery, appeared to be approaching a captivating onyx. The gaze that originated from behind the glasses, and glided across the room that was suddenly too small for two struck you, and you could feel heat starting to rise on your face, blush threatening to reveal the effect of the man’s spontaneous act of confidence. Lowering your head, you gave the stranger a sheepish grin, and pretended to make a random note, pen erratically scribbling over a filled page. He continued to regard you with that same unwavering expression, and only when you looked up again did he seem to catch himself and give you a closed-mouth smile, equally as bashful as yours, and crossed his arms. One step, another, and he was right by the painting, though careful to not obstruct your view - instead, he took his time to read the brief paragraph on the information plaque that had been stuck to the wall off to the side of ‘Love and Pain’. With the same familiarity that is common among those grieving, or in a state of existential sorrow. A bittersweetness prevailed in his aura, one that reminded you of autumn - the falling leaves in red and gold, twirling to join a magnificent carpet, but nonetheless, making a departure, albeit a nearly unnoticeable one. Had he seen many fallen leaves? Was he himself approaching the season? You gasped, but even though the sound was barely audible, you caught the stranger making a minuscule turn in response.

His footsteps were louder than your thoughts, his departure an irrevocably impactful act that left you breathless. You did not know him, and yet you felt as though you had gotten a glimpse at multiple lifetimes, and were part of a moment that was greater than yourself. In the wordless exchange, question after question had found its root, and something told you that you should not dare attempt to craft him a backstory, and choosing to believe in anything but what would be declared by him would be a gross misinterpretation, much like one that was carried out by those who did not wish to reflect on art and look beyond a first impression. For the first time since you had made your initial discovery of the arts, you felt like you were not alone in the gallery, the other visitor’s presence remained so intense that he could be sat right next to you, scrutinising the same painting, entertaining the same thought. Was the woman with the bright tresses indeed what she had been declared to be over the many years she had been introduced to many venues, many variations of public, and finally finding a home on this wall? Did she settle with her lover, or perhaps a carefully selected victim? Would the man have an answer?

______ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ ⋆ . It was unlike you to retrace your steps a mere few days after a visit and return to the same gallery, amble down the same halls, and seek for a new source of investigative inspiration among the same selection. This obviously did not mean that you would never return, definitely not, that would be almost criminal of you to possess such intentions, but you tended to try to cleanse your palate with alternative movements, contemporary takes and avant garde interpretations between searches which were more directly related to your studies. And yet, for the first time in a while, nothing was stopping you from your return. It felt only natural, and so right. Moreover, you felt no unease when you headed straight towards the section that housed the impressionists. An individual with an unspoken, mysterious mission, you were on the hunt for the creative streak, something that would help you ponder the next section of your hefty dissertation, and you could sense that it had to be somewhere here. And, like always, you were right.

‘Bazille’s Studio’, one of the most famous works painted by the so-called ‘tragic artist’ of the impressionists, Frédéric Bazille in 1870. In fact, it had been a collaboration between him and Édouard Manet, another gifted artist, though more renowned as a figure leading modernism, and depicted a scene of discussion and creative collaboration in the studio that Bazille had shared for a certain period of time with other spectacular figures of the visual arts, Claude Monet, Pierre-Auguste Renoir, who could also be found in this painting. On the walls were works rejected by the Salon, which at the time had been the one of the most influential, famous art exhibitions in the Western World, administered by the Académie des Beaux-Arts in Paris. Interestingly, above the piano on the right hung a painting which Bazille had purchased from Monet, potentially hinting at the material ties between them, and the importance the young artist had because of his familial wealth. In a sense, Bazille expressed his support, as well as showed an intimate, platonic scene of the art world where there was a moment of calm, of mutual appreciation, despite the financial troubles and tensions due to character that had been experienced in those walls.

You stepped closer to the painting, trying to detect the transition from Bazille’s to Manet’s hand, the latter of whom painted in the former to take ‘centre stage’, palette in hand. Truly seamless work, though what else could it be? This painting had been a new addition to the permanent collection, and after strenuous, detailed restoration work to give the oil paints their original vibrancy and for impeccable strokes to forget the burden of time, you had the pleasure of seeing it in person. You were an arm’s length away from yet another work essential to history, culture and the arts as a societal colossus.

While it was easy enough to appreciate the technical detail, you found yourself halting to remember the names of all those depicted in the painting, failing to finalise the list in your head. Starting from Bazille, you had determined for yourself the presence of Monet and Manet in his vicinity quickly enough, however where Renoir was, or what were the names of the two other gentlemen in the scene, slipped your mind. You rocked to the side to lean closer to the plaque that was meant to provide you with the information, however you only found the name of the painting, the artist and the medium, much to your misfortune. Clicking your tongue, you returned to studying the faces of each individual, and furrowed your brows in agitated concentration. It was simple to take out your phone and search for the answer, though you knew that just as neutral that action would be, so would be your reaction unless you were to remember, or somebody were to-

A presence to your side caught you off-guard, and you felt a shiver run up your spine. One glance was enough to determine that it was the same man from yesterday, only the outfit revealing a change. Other than that, he had the same impeccable posture and stance, as well as a thoughtful look towards the painting in front of you both. His arms were crossed, though not in a defensive manner; instead they offered an interpretation of philosophy, as though this man was carrying centuries of wisdom with him, history having pummelled down on him and yet needing to support it like Atlas; the titan carrying the world.

Today, he was dressed in a mahogany coloured suit, with a white top underneath and some black boots with thick white rubber soles - quite the transition from last time, when he had been a manifestation of a sleek and pristine office gentleman. Hair, now let down and wavy, neatly framed his face, accentuating the regalness of his features. It was astounding how you were still sure that it would be more likely to find a man of this fashion in a painting, rather than standing beside you. You kept quiet, not wanting to interfere with his musings. Perhaps it was just a silly coincidence that the two of you were at the same place and at the same time again - how else? You did not know him, and you hoped that he did not know you. Though, you truly did not mind his company, and maybe it could serve as your motivation to figure out the rest of the characters in the painting. Once again, your attention returned to the task at hand, but before you could even begin to list off prominent figures of the art world during the era of Impressionism, a deep, honey-like whisper halted you and made you hold your breath.

“Auguste Renoir is the one seated, Emile Zola, the writer, is on the stairs, Monet, Manet and Bazille are, as you likely know in the centre, and that,” he paused to raise his hand, gesturing in the general direction of the far right of the piece, “is Edmond Maitre. Pianist, art collector, and Bazille’s closest friend.”

“I- uh- thank you. How did you know I was trying to recall? Pardon me, I must look so clueless-” you trailed off, eyes finding the floor, an action which seemed to be your automatic response to being under inspection of the man, though this time, he captured your gaze quickly by stepping closer towards you. Looking up, you found concern and apology in his eyes.

“No! Not at all, I… sorry if I misunderstood and I am sorry for forcing you into such erroneous conclusions,” he gave you an ever so slightly crooked smile, charming, very disarming and so suiting this beautiful stranger, that you were instantly prompted by your instincts to return it, dismissing doubt.

“You saved me,” you joked, though the phrase contained within itself an unlikely compassion. Two people, alone in the same gallery, sharing a precious dialogue was something to cherish, and with all your might you wanted to make it last.

“Just as you made me regard the painting in a new light, for which I thank you, greatly,” he bowed his head, the smile not leaving his face for a moment. There was a recognition in his gaze, as well as an inexplicable admiration. What did he discover?

“I guess it might be true that no matter how many times you see a painting, every viewing brings something new,”

“Well said. Are you an artist? A critic, perhaps?” He inquired, moving closer to stand level with you, head turned slightly in your direction to spare the occasional glance. You shook your head slowly, wondering if in a retelling of your destiny you could have pursued either of the careers he had mentioned.

“I am in the arts, though rather than looking at the present I remain in the past. Art historian, well, a postgraduate. Nothing too fancy.”

“Oh? But that is marvellous, and what are you focusing on?”

“I like to call it the painting in plenair during the turn of the century. I focus mainly on impressionism, though do sometimes stray into its interplay with post-impressionism, modernism and expressionism.”

“Ah, no wonder I have been seeing you here often. Enjoying the new collection?” he asked, eager to hear your opinion. There was excitement in his voice as though you were a renowned expert and were about to bestow upon him a priceless evaluation. And this was without considering the technicality of you having only half-met. Just crossing paths twice in one week.

"Yes, of course… The collection is unlike any other I have seen. I keep wanting to return and stay here for ages." You explained, glancing at the stranger while he nodded along.

"Incredibly happy to hear it. I swear I have seen you around quite often during the past month that the exhibition has been open? Am I correct?" evidently, your rapid blinking was interpreted rather quickly as perplexion, for the man gasped ever so lightly, as if to catch his own speeding thoughts.

“I- how do you know? I do believe this is our… second time meeting?” you uttered, one eyebrow raised in suspicion, which, to your disbelief, revealed something akin to fear in the beautiful stranger’s features. Nervously, he adjusted a strand of hair that was threatening to cover his right eye.

“Not quite… you were present at the opening event, right?” he quizzed.

“Indeed, my depar- wait. But how? Respectfully, I am starting to think you know me.” you enunciated with newfound caution, while the man pursed his lips. One second, another passed in near total silence, until a chuckle escaped him and he shook his head. It appeared as though he was mentally scolding himself - his eyes held no malice, instead glinting with hope, that melancholic wisdom, and something unidentifiable, ethereal, supernatural.

“I think it is high time I introduce myself before this gets out of hand. See, in some sense I work here, and most of my days are spent in the gallery or labouring for it-”

“Ah, I see-”

“Park Seonghwa, a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” with one arm folded behind his back and the other on his chest, he bowed to you like how you imagined princes in the numerous portraits you had studied would bow. And the most enthralling part was how the gesture flowed, and was so befitting. Quickly, you bowed in return, but while raising your head, you froze. It hit you why he would know. And know a lot. And would remember you, and likely anyone and everyone who visited. In a low whisper, you asked:

“Am I… correct in assuming that you are ‘the’ Park Seonghwa?” quickly enough, you realised that it was a mistake to find his eyes again - clearly, you were not ready for the intensity, nor for the intrigue that was contained within them, nor for the fact that he moved another step closer to you, the rubber of his boots dampening any sound produced.

“I never knew that there was a ‘the’ attached to my name. I simply love art.”

“Well that love translated into the creation of what is possibly the greatest gallery in the nation, if not worldwide,”

“Oh you flatter me too much, ah, your name-”

“L/N Y/N, and I, too, love art.”

“Elated to hear it,” he gleamed, and you swore the room exploded with the illumination of a thousand stars.

Stunning, awe-inspiring, ever so elegant. He was a walking dream. In that smile was concealed a certain something that had been taboo, a well-kept secret until a couple of decades ago, when those like Seonghwa had started to be fully integrated into society, and no longer had to hide, changing identity from one century to another. With that came Seonghwa’s success - you had read in an article that advertised the permanent exhibition a short blurb of his story, and how for many turbulent decades, the man single-handedly collected masterpieces, crafted a meticulous network and introduced genius artists to the world, and the world to the artists. The gallery was a magnum opus for Seonghwa - a presentation of what he had achieved as a collector, as a patron of the arts, and a celebration of his personal culture.

You could not help but hone in on the fangs, and recall the original reason why it was even possible for Seonghwa to obtain such legendary works and have as much influence as he presently did. It was not spontaneous; submerged in turmoil, he had personally approached artists who, previously abandoned by critics and other prospective buyers, had never considered a future beyond a mysterious tomorrow. Hiding his own true nature, he crafted the tale of a ‘Park’ dynasty, and rose again and again to continue his work. Perhaps, now, some might argue that once he had revealed himself as a vampire the velocity of Seonghwa’s developments had fallen, but you would passionately argue the opposite. It was challenging to believe that any move by this stunning artistic mastermind was not strategic - the announcement had given the gallery more partnerships, more donations, and in turn, an even greater prominence in the community both among professionals and enjoyers.

“Thank you,” the phrase spilled from your lips inadvertently. It seemed to be the only thing that was reasonable to say in that given moment. You pondered the pains that must have been suffered to make the world that you were consumed by come together, and the painting in front of you, aside from what was contained within the frame,now shined in a new light externally too, possessing its own story, resembling a search for a kindred spirit, a true home.

Seonghwa remained quiet, the words of gratitude echoing in his heart. It was endearing, encouraging to hear such warmth from you. So, you did know him, at least the parts he had shown to the public - as was expected from someone so deeply ingrained in visual arts and history, but he could not help but identify it as something much greater than mere awareness. The openness with which you had welcomed conversation with him, the kind charm that radiated from you as you engaged in the careful verbal waltz reminded the vampire of times long, long ago when all that existed for him was drive, enamourment and art. Oh, how your eyes glimmered. His heart clenched into near unbearable agony as he read your expressions, and wondered how much you have seen, what have you yet to see, who you were in this temporary life. If only he could ask fate to tell him how much you remembered of who you had been before.

“No, thank you, for giving this,” he gestured to the gallery around him, graceful hand unfurling as though revealing a delicate flower, “meaning, and reason to exist.”

“I highly doubt I am of much significance, Mister Park,” you responded, a soft smile on your face.

“Would anything hold the same meaning if there was no one to behold it?” he responded. You chose not to answer, catching onto the rhetoricism, “and please, call me Seonghwa. I’d like to say we are to be good friends.”

______ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ ⋆ .

Sitting across from Seonghwa in the cafe that was located on the top floor, above the main halls of the gallery made you feel strangely serene. Today he had foregone the straighter hair styles that you had begun to get used to, surprising you with a head of tousled, almost curled locks that embodied the world’s softness, though remained to be quite the contrast to the more formal and highly fashionable attire that adorned his stature. A suit, tastefully oversized with a buttoned double breasted jacket that was simultaneously serving as a shirt, the plunging v-shaped neckline revealing perfectly smooth skin, and what you noted to be a solitary freckle right in the centre of his collarbone. The trousers, at least from the glimpse that you had allowed yourself when you had met at the entrance to the cafe were of a loose fit, defining his waist at the top and falling to form an almost skirt-like silhouette should he stand how he usually stood: the echoes of what would be called the ‘third position’ in ballet, more relaxed, but still retaining an elegance that only he could carry. The biggest shock to you, however, was Seonghwa’s choice of shoes - a refreshing point to the visual, he had selected to contrast the formalwear with a pair of limited edition, geometrically intriguing Converses. You could catch a glimpse of one of them from over the edge of the table whenever his slightly shaking leg, positioned over the other, would rock forwards just that tiny bit stronger.

While the setting was meant to be casual, the circumstances in which you found yourself were nothing short of miraculous. Never in a million years would you have imagined for it to be possible to be sat across the table from, quite possibly, one of the most legendary contributors to art restoration, collection and exhibition. On top of that, Seonghwa was a figure who actively bridged the gap between disparate communities, finding a common language, and using the arts as a salvation. You were in awe, and could not hold back on regarding the handsome vampire as he quietly reported your and his orders to the waiter who had floated to your table.

“Are you sure you do not want anything else?”

“Yes, I am sure. I do not wish to exploit your kindness-”

“-Not at all. I hope you do not mind that I… must make a rather unconventional order,” he smiled sheepishly, clearing his throat so as to attempt to hide his doubts, though you were uncertain as to how much of such emotions could possibly be left after what had to have been centuries.

“An unconventional order is pouring a sugary energy drink into a triple shot espresso and calling it dinner,” you answered, eyes travelling from Seonghwa’s face to the mural on the wall a few tables away that wrapped behind him and to your left, disrupted only by the occasional floor length window that provided city vistas - rather gloomy, compared to the optimistic illumination of the restaurant. Perhaps out of pity, or out of genuine entertainment, Seonghwa chuckled.

“That does sound like an acquired taste, indeed. Thank you,”

“No need. Thank you for inviting me,” you turned back, nodding a polite bow as he softly waved your gesture off.

A silence settled across the table as you waited for your respective drinks. Your hand, had you not consciously restrained yourself, would have probably reached for the phone that you stored in your purse, but now was fiddling with the sleeve of your shirt, finding the buttons to stress test the threads that had them sewn tight to the fabric. You were not bored, in fact, far from it. You needed a barrier. The grandeur of this man’s presence was almost overwhelming. He was not a mere individual in a room, he consumed it. Had you just walked in, you were certain that your gaze would still settle on his form. Just like the concrete outside was grey, and the pause retained a divine ambiguity, Seonghwa was unforgettable. In an attempt to calm your clouded thoughts, you studied the mural once more.

“May I inquire into your thoughts on the decor?”

“The choice of ‘A Sunday on La Grande Jatte’ is wise. I am guessing you were the one to make the decision?” you heard an exhale, and once more your attention was captured.

“Alas, I cannot take full accolades for this. This stemmed from a discussion that a good friend of mine and I had one late night. Seurat just so happened to make an appearance amidst the chatter, and so… this was born,” he gestured at the surroundings. Clearly, the interior was picked carefully to fit the theme of the legendary painting.

From the colours to the textures and the greenery that had been intricately set up across the restaurant, every detail had a meaning and a place, and did not take away from the spaciousness of the hall. It was breathable, while still giving the illusion that you were stepping into a whimsical impressionist paradise. Perhaps that was another reason why you could not quite contain your disbelief firstly in your encounter, secondly in its progression, and thirdly in your interlocutor’s warmth.

“Spectacular, truly. I have heard you have an eye for detail, however this surpasses all expectations.”

“Oh? There is more you have heard?” he interjected, leaning closer to you and placing an elbow on the table, simply to rest his head on his hand. While this could potentially be seen as slightly unceremonious, it hinted at well-kept confidence, ownership, control. A healthy undercurrent of motivation that came with indirect praise.

“I-oh y-yeah of course,” you did not mean to stutter, but some part of you was grateful you did, for the smirk that had threatened to burst on Seonghwa’s lips was enough for you to feel ignited to elaborate, “if my memory is not failing me, you were the one to distinguish a reproduction of a piece some time ago, no?”

“Ah- yes. That was a Degas reproduction. I must say, the attempt was sincere, however when I saw the-, hm, you will not be startled, will you?”

“Please,” you urged him to continue, intrigued by the story.

“When I saw the original, as it was being made and when it had been finalised, it would be shameful of me to not spot a fake,” he fell back into his chair, just in time for the drinks to be served.

A coffee for you, and a non-descript beverage concealed by a semi-opaque, tall glass for him. Though, you did not need to be a detective to guess what it was that Seonghwa was bringing to his lips, and what he took a tentative sip of. The only mystery that was remaining for you was what ‘type’ he had picked - was it O+? B-? Whatever else? You joined him in the tasting, lifting the mug and indulging in the wonderful aroma of your americano. It did not strike you as necessary to opt for something fancier and lie to yourself - so you settled for your regular order, much to your joy. Familiar taste and the reliability of the caffeine hitting your system painted the scene in more comforting colours, and gradually, you found yourself easing into the dialogue more and more, until life stories, musings and a surprisingly large common ground came pouring.

You discovered that Seonghwa possessed a unique sensitivity and attunement to those around him. Focused on the emotional experiences, he felt through time and could recount emotions like the memory was from a mere few days, rather than decades ago. He was well-spoken, eloquent, intelligent, polite in every right as he navigated through the linguistic landscape and guided you like a partner in a dance. You were spiralling oh so quickly, intrigue catching up to you and prompting you to sacrifice all of your senses to the man and the pleasantly intoxicating atmosphere he captured you in. He was enchanting, and it was far too easy to give in.

“May I reveal something?” in a hushed tone, he inquired, a finger absent-mindedly tracing the rim of his glass.

“Oh, a little secret?” you raised your eyebrows in jest, lightening the initial seriousness with which Seonghwa uttered the question.

“Perhaps, perhaps not. Depends on how you take it. A confession might be more accurate,” he waited for you to take the final sip of your coffee before continuing, unphased by your unwavering focus, “if I were to be honest, I have been meaning to approach you.”

“Pardon?”

“As you know we have a… common awareness of each other thanks to what is housed under this roof, but ever since we first unknowingly crossed paths… I wanted to speak to you.”

Confused, you did not speak, though the words contained an unparalleled affection within them. What could he possibly mean? You chose to refrain from commenting, your hesitation prompting the vampire to continue.

“Do you remember the most recent opening night? Of the exhibition? I believe you were with someone…” he trailed off, hoping you would continue for him.

“Ah, yes, a friend of mine from university. So?”

“This might sound strange but, I distinctly remember you mentioning a name. An artist from the same era, dubbed as L/N Y/N?”

“Goodness, you overheard that? I am so sorry, it is just that said artist has intrigued me for some time, and I was half-hoping to encounter their work. Maybe it is because our names are the same but still….”

“Elusive, aren’t they?”

“To put it softly, yes. I only vaguely recall seeing… maybe one piece in my lifetime, when I was little, and then… nothing. And there is barely any information on the artist online, let alone libraries and archives.”

“Hm, indeed. I guess that makes two of us…”

“Two of us who are searching?”

“That’s right. It brought me happiness to know that I am not alone in this endeavour.”

“Then we can keep searching together.”

While you were positive that you could not conceal your interest, Seonghwa’s did not go unnoticed either. It was of course possible that he was simply well-versed in political correctness, but the burning depth of his pupils told you otherwise. Enthrallment, the discovery of a kindred spirit, recognition, the rekindling of a bond that had existed at some point long ago - all fantasies that played out in your mind as you returned that look with subtle fervour. You wondered how many people he graced with those charms. How many had succumbed to his influence, becoming a marker on his infinite life path, a fleeting second? How many had his lips known, how many had turned into a decadent treat for a genius man with natural peculiarities? While the researcher part of you was perplexed and aching for answers, the you that was caught in the moment simply let it go on, and the feeling of Seonghwa’s leg brushing against yours, and the pride blooming in your chest as he praised the few articles and papers you had published upon having claimed that he ‘knew some things about you too’ preoccupied you in the most magnificent way.

Naturally, you agreed to meet Seonghwa again. On your journey home, in the privacy of the anonymous metro, immersed in the cacophony of deafening rails and the millions travelling to anywhere, you pressed your phone to your racing heart as the vampire, the man, the beguiling Park Seonghwa sent you a message confirming so. Who knew a simple selection of words could be so captivating?

______ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ ⋆ .

Under the comforting thrum of raindrops on the large umbrella, you walked down the streets of the grey-coloured city, your hand lightly holding onto Seonghwa’s arm while he ensured that both of you were protected from the elements. Despite the dull light and bitterness of the cooling season, Seonghwa appeared radiant, truly timeless with every gesture and stride. The elegant angles of his face that you could tirelessly study stood out against the monotone buildings and overcast skies. His voice drowned out the sound of droplets racing one another to the ground. A miraculous gentleman who appeared in your life much like a portrait, or a landscape - a masterpiece you wanted to explore in every spare moment, and better yet, this masterpiece was equally as open to you as you were to him.

“...essentially, yes. It is like another nationality. A marker of species isn’t too far isn’t it? Just another line on a stack of documents. Nothing more,” Seonghwa concluded his explanation, pursing his lips for a moment before letting an exhale turned dragon’s breath escape into the afternoon.

“Makes sense. So would that mean there are separate medical papers and treatment too?”

“Well… when regeneration fails us or when a given case is severe enough… yes. Though it is handled by private clinics run by other vampires.”

“There are private clinics?”

“Of course. Often they are connected to donation points too, and that is how we remain on the right side of the law and stay alive,” he nodded to himself, giving you a bittersweet smile when he noticed confusion overtake your gaze. “Blood,” he stated as-a-matter-of-factly, “I mean blood.”

In a nervous stupor, you cleared your throat and focused on a droplet that was hanging onto the edge of the umbrella, right in front of you, all the way until the gentle motion of Seonghwa’s amble provoked its abrupt descent onto the stone under your feet.

“Ah, yes, I see-”

“If you find this disturbing, we can forget the conversation ever-”

“-I want to know you better, Seonghwa, truly-”

“Careful-”

“Sorry wha-”

With an extraordinary swiftness, you were tugged abruptly by the arm. Not registering your surroundings, you merely went with the inertia, caught off-guard by the proximity of your face to the vampire’s as he held you against him with the arm that you had previously been resting your own on. A hand that you raised on instinct went limp and landed on Seonghwa’s chest, feeling the thick felted wool of his coat. The ringing of a bell, going farther away from you by the second, incessant but at least waking you up from the blur, was enough for you to put two and two together - a cyclist who thought they owned every part of the street, like always. You sighed.

“Reckless… my apologies I did not mean to-” Seonghwa tried to detangle himself, refusing to remain in your personal space for longer than necessary no matter how much he did want to, but his efforts were reduced to nothing when your hand moved to a hold on his upper arm - reassuring, comfortable, accepting.

“Thank you,” you interrupted, “that bike would have definitely run into me…”

“It’s nothing,” a low chuckle echoed in your ears as Seonghwa peered into your pupils, confidence that had previously wavered out of habitual caution now restored, growing into a pride as you continued to hold onto him, “the man was slow enough for there to be no risk of harm. I hope you are not too startled though.”

“Oh? You have super powers too? Do elaborate,” you jested, resuming your walk.

“I would call it more like… being a finely tuned machine. Can’t say I have bad reaction speed. Though I must say, it was a little challenging pulling you out of the way,” there was an evident intent behind the words. However, you were too curious to pay it any mind, instead preferring to find out their meaning live.

“How so?”

“I think this,” dropping his arm, Seonghwa’s hand reached for yours, and without a moment of hesitation, his fingers were intertwining with yours, his palm pressed against yours, “would be better. You know, for safety.” As if you could ever reject him. This was a fact you had established for yourself with an unprecedented certainty. His gallant disposition, attentiveness all confirmed a care for you that was impossible to ignore.

There was something picturesque about the present after meeting this wonderful, infinite pool of art and humanity. You found yourself leafing through articles, art books and biographies with a more wistful and sentimental perspective, imagining what it would be like if it were you who was immortalised in the thousands of brushstrokes, or if you were on the other side of the canvas, how would you go about depicting the scenes unfolding before your very eyes. Timelessness - a quality shared between the art you so adored, and the man you had encountered and over the weeks, let your intrigue be transformed into a shy flame of infatuation. Perhaps it was the underlying reason why you did not reject his advances, nor cower in fear of his true nature with which he was upfront. The other, of course, was the search for the mysterious artist, an adventure that fuelled many of your dialogues, and prompted you to spend more time in the library and the archives of your university than you had ever done before - to the point where Seonghwa himself had encouraged you to take a break from your intellectual expeditions and step into the world as a casual observer. So, you let yourself drift; it finally hit you, what scenes your once again tranquil stroll reminded you of, and you smiled to yourself as you recalled the intricacies of the not quite commonly discussed representation of the Impressionist movement.

‘Rue de Paris, temps de pluie’, painted by Gustave Caillebotte; his most famous work. Not quite as widely discussed, despite still technically being created in the Impressionist era, perhaps due to the meandering through form, realism and reliance on stronger lines rather than broad brushstrokes and the study of light. You did find it fascinating how Caillebotte’s passion for photography had seeped into this piece, however. Much like how, in recent days, you could easily find a way to mention Seonghwa in conversation, be it related to the arts or not. From the subjects in the foreground being slightly out of focus while the middle ground was crystal clear, to how the shapes of some passersby were cropped were all characteristic of photos, rather than paintings, making this particular work all the more dear to you. It was a reflection of life, of behaviour and of what had been daily back in the late nineteenth century.

Was it any different from now, aside from those grand, global topics that historians dedicated their lives to studying? If one were to whittle down to the intricacies, the miniatures that ornamented the span of a human existence, was it so terribly far away from what you were born into, and Seonghwa saw develop and had adopted? How people shielded themselves from the rain with umbrellas, and then used them as a tool to isolate themselves from other urbanites who were in a rush to take a day-long route out of their homes… and back again. The latest silhouettes of dress and accessory; the same rush to be with the times as now.

You felt your companion’s arm move, prompting you to let go and leave your hand hovering as though you were awaiting some kind of change. You bit back an unprecedented sliver of disappointment, only to be caught by surprise once again as you felt the hand settle on the small of your back. Cautious, like you were going to melt from any more pressure than the brush of a feather. A quick glance was enough to determine that you were being studied intently for any sign of discomfort - Seonghwa was ready to pull away at any moment, any sigh, and most definitely at any word. A meek smile settled on your lips, and you shyly used an oncoming stranger as an opportunity to affirm the gesture, stepping towards the vampire, and sensing the confidence of his protective measure be solidified. With glee he followed your every tilt and turn, angling away from the passing form that neither of you could focus on. The touch was electric, somehow monumental despite being so common and barely present. Your mind was on fire, pondering what it would be like to put your head on the elegant man’s shoulder, and let yourself be carried away into a terrific fairy tale.

“This really is a rainy day,”

“Seems quite sunny to me,” you respond with sarcasm, realising only after the fact that your phrase still did retain an element of truth within it.

Sunshine did not have to be literal. It was easy to see, you just needed to return Seonghwa’s gaze, and watch as another spring flower blossomed in the soul of one you had initially assumed to be so cold, so distant. In the darkest winter was a safe haven that you could not help but lean into, and regardless of what you had initially thought, with him, you felt more human, more safe and alive than ever. He listened without fail to your ramblings, and could easily pick up the ball and balance it with his own musings that you could listen to for many lifetimes.

Lifetimes; immortality, the one concept you couldn’t quite wrap your head around. Well, the latter was technically not true, as Seonghwa had elaborated some few days ago: vampires did age, albeit at such a slow pace that to the run of the mill human being, it was impossible to notice, and if they did, it would be someone very close, and only over a matter of decades. Maybe it was this exact inability that made you want to stay and learn all there could be about the gallerist - you thought that would make you feel like you have been living forever. His wisdom was beautiful. The kindness with which he treated you, akin to that of how a spouse treats their long-time sweetheart with a mellow and comfortable affection, was not something you asked for nor expected, but something which he introduced himself with through every action, progressively more amiable when you allowed him to advance.

“Mm, no wonder I can’t quite look at you,” he mused out loud, dramatically looking off into the distance. You raised an eyebrow, curious about what was going to come after his theatrical pause, “your brightness is unparalleled,” Seonghwa chuckled, satisfied with your sigh and the way in which you pretended to be annoyed, only to dissolve in a mute giggle. “So, I do suggest we get out of the rain for a moment and stop by that book shop over there, shall we?”

Following his hand, you spotted an antique bookshop a few doors down, marked by an iron sign and ornate shop window decorations that glistened with each hit of the dancing droplets. A warm golden light emanated from the inside, the hue comparable to a summer’s day. An odd feeling of deja vu washed over you, as though you had been in this store before, even though this was quite the distance away from your home, not on any of your usual commutes and in a part of town you barely visited aside from the occasional brisk walk. It had been established over a century ago, sporting a historical plaque and detailing original to the era the date on the sign suggested. Suppressing your internal monologue, you simply nodded, fond of Seonghwa’s excitement as he pushed lightly against your back and walked on ahead. If you were any more of a romantic, you would have assumed that the shop was a representation of his heart, but you couldn’t allow yourself to think that way, at least not when you felt heat rise to your cheeks as he whispered your name, openly planning what you could look for amidst the rare editions together. You and him turned into a ‘we’ so naturally, you barely had time to blink. A new brushstroke on a canvas, brave, bold and bright. Impressionist.

______ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ ⋆ .

The hypnotising improvisation on a semi-acoustic guitar, followed by a launch back into the theme of a well-known jazz song had you tapping on the counter, unknowingly following every drum beat. The bar turned cosy music venue that Seonghwa had invited you out to was proving to be every bit a wonder of the world, and paradise inside of the otherwise gloomy city which had been plagued with miserable weather and lack of daylight for atrociously long. The classy establishment was a well known favourite among the vampires residing in the city, especially those aligned with a more bohemian and art-focused lifestyle. Critics, painters, collectors, musicians, poets alike all gathered to share ideas and energy, and reminisce days long gone, while the band - one that had not changed since the bar’s establishment, revived legendary pieces one after another.

With ease, Seonghwa had ordered your favourite drink, having memorised it after your many outings that had smoothly transitioned into dates and shared nights. He remembered every detail about you, holding each one tenderness. Your lover gazed at you as he ended a conversation with a fellow collector who had recently come to town for a few days, stretching out his hand until it just touched yours, guiding it to lie flat on the counter. Seonghwa’s palm, still retaining a pleasant coolness despite him having had a couple of drinks of his own, was another reassurance that in the buzz of the venue, you still had your person by your side. Feeling his digits tap and then proceed to brush the back of your hand, you hummed in contentment, and let your eyes travel over the beautiful vampire, who leaned back, tempting you just for fun, knowing full well that you were wholly his, and even when you turned to look elsewhere, it was his face you saw in the crowd, it was his voice that rang in your ears, it was his touch that ghosted over your skin.

The bustier from Alexander McQueen, the gorgeous flowy shirt with ruffles and cuts so tastefully sewn and executed, the statement necklace that was worthy of being displayed at a gallery and must be the envy of many, the high heeled boots that were concealed by elegant trousers - Seonghwa was your favourite work of art, and you could never deny it. Each one of his gestures was worthy of marvel, and the care with which he approached everything - even the tending to the items which he painstakingly selected and matched for tonight made your heart skip a beat. It was boggling how each garment and accessory was either an original, or a one of a kind piece. But at the same time, you did not expect anything less of Seonghwa.

He must be impossible to depict in paintings, you concluded, shamelessly staring at your lover’s face, from the shape of his nose, to the plushness of his lips, to the waviness of his night-like inky locks. You bet many had tried, but judging by the lacking evidence in the art world, they must have failed, miserably, to create something more immortal and invincible than the model and muse. You understood them, and Seonghwa gave no signs of being perturbed.

“So, was that the intent behind our spontaneous trip to this bar tonight?” you gestured at your surroundings, taking another sip from your ornate glass. A sharp exhale accompanied a contrasting soft answer:

“Not at all,I had the business sorted a couple of days ago, and tonight was a lucky crossing of paths to secure the deal,” cryptic as ever, Seonghwa only alluded to the matter at hand.

The matter, or how he had referred to it as ‘business’ was a particular artwork that he had been hunting, by the elusive artist you had been investigating, first in your lonesome, and then joining forces with Seonghwa. Apparently, one of the pieces, by some stroke of unimaginable luck, had been kept safe in the private collection of a ‘Mister Kim’, at least that was how he had been initially introduced to you. Until you put two and two together, and when the very well dressed and styled character had entered the bar and made a beeline towards your partner in artistic musings and romance, recognised the man as a world-famous designer and fashion icon, Kim Hongjoong. And of course, another vampire and kind soul in one.

Their conversation had happened outside of your earshot; whether it was on purpose or just so happened to unfold that way was for your ruminations to determine, but you did overhear enough to figure out that this was a portrait, a never seen work, and was completed by the artist who as it had turned out had been closer with Seonghwa than you had initially thought.

“Seems to be very important, and not just in a ‘collector’ sense…” you trailed off, watching as the ice in your drink cracked, “is this why you were interested, you know, back then?”

“If I were to be honest, darling, I was, and still am, a lot more interested in you. The artist was something of an excuse to get a conversation going. And I do hope,” Seonghwa turned and sauntered towards you, “this conversation does not end.”

Even though you were sitting on one of the bar stools, the heels and stance still left him some room to look downwards, and his sultry expression, orbs glinting at you through dark lashes left you transfixed. In moments such as this, you hated to be mortal. There were so many things that you could not possibly know, and no matter how hard you would try to comprehend the vastness of the angelic man’s mind, you would always remain theoretical, and accept the grand majority of intricacies as axiom.

“I hope so too,” your voice barely rose above a whisper as his gloved hand landed on your neck, gliding upwards to caress your jawline.

“I’m so glad I found you,” his thoughts were elsewhere, you were sure of it, and yet, his gaze remained unwavering, “my eternal love”. Lips stained with bittersweet worship, the words stumbled from them to strike you repeatedly in the heart, forcing it to lose its rhythm. He was regarding you like he had stumbled upon a priceless treasure, a divinity, a paradise. Something far from you and from this planet, but by Seonghwa’s careful selection, etched in your features.

Were you the embodiment of something greater for him? You would not consider yourself to be a model example of a human being, neither were you a pretty statue to display in an exhibition. You were you, but Seonghwa kept on convincing you that it was exactly this that had captivated him and showed him a new beginning. Did you wish to believe that? Of course. But a vampire who was hundreds of years old could keep a grand variety of secrets beyond your understanding, even if he were to exclaim them right in front of you and sketch them out. His eternal love - your version of eternity, or his? A life the duration of a butterfly’s abstract dance to the heavens.

“Love?” he called out to you, eyebrows knitted in concern due to your prolonged silence. You had set your drink down, and were staring at the shine of the glossy chrome silver and pearl on Seonghwa’s necklace. “Talk to me, say anything.”

“I- hm. I think I am just tired. Yeah, that must be it. Tired so I am overthinking, no worries. I’ll just be right here and-”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” you tilted your head, noting how Seonghwa immediately straightened out, and instead of attempting to tower over you stepped over to the side to set a protective hand over yours.

“This is a majority vampire bar, full of unfamiliar individuals, this whole deal with the artwork is up in the air and-”

“First of all, I don’t care. Second, you are here with me. And third, I want to trust in the fact that you would not do anything foolish nor harmful. Am I right in my evaluation?” you uttered, still not quite able to look into Seonghwa’s infinite pools of brilliant sienna and dark brown.

“I- I am honoured, but that still does not detract from the fact that we can go get some air and come back. Shall we?”

“You don’t have to-”

“I want to. Hell, need to. Let us have a quick wander?”

“...I’d like that.”

In no time, the winter air hit your cheeks and you were wrapping yourself as tightly as you could in your oversized coat. In your ears the pleasant sound of the vampire’s heels rang out, echoed by the stunning road onto which you were spat out by the heavy black front door of the bar. Warm-toned streetlights liberally decorated the sidewalks and painted the night in honey, gold and copper accents. Reflections of an artificial summer in the puddles and winter chill. Downright magical. Seonghwa seeked out your hand, holding it tight and guiding it into the pocket of his own coat, smirking when you raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

“Nothing at all.”

You were certain that you were walking through a landscape painting, every element captured by your vision falling into its rightful place, harmonising with the rest. The mumbling and music was long gone, only to be replaced by conversation of other late city explorers and the occasional rumbling of a car lazily rolling past.

“Pissarro.”

“Hm?” Seonghwa kept looking ahead, but squeezed your hand to ask for you to continue.

“Boulevard Montmartre at Night. Painted in 1897, no?” you pointed at the surroundings with a tilt of the chin.

“Ah, indeed! Your perceptiveness never ceases to amaze me.”

“Well, thanks to you I got to see the original, so how could I not make the visual analogy?” you nudged his shoulder, earning a chuckle.

The painting was the only example of a landscape at night from the artist Camille Pissarro, making it all the more special despite it being part of a series of 14 views of the same location. Snow, rain, fog, morning, varying seasons, but only one glimmering night. It was one of the works that Seonghwa had managed to provide for your studies, resulting in a more than impressive academic outcome. Like Pissarro kept on painting the vista, your lover kept on giving, never asking for anything more than for you to share your hours with him, something you did not need to be prompted to do anyways.

“...I’m sorry I cannot reveal more than I do, at least not just yet,” he apologised, as though what he was committing was the greatest crime known to humanity and the supernatural.

As you looked up at the starry night sky, you swore you had heard these words before, uttered by the same voice, the same fingers interlocked with yours. A stabbing sensation in your cranium made you gasp, but you regained your composure quickly enough to not make it a priority for either of you. At the same time, Seonghwa’s expression altered to a semblance of… hope? Longing? You could not pinpoint it, but one of the many glowing dots above you clearly landed in his shining orbs, and he eagerly waited.

Waited for longer than you could realise in your present state.

On their own accord, your lips moved, forcing out a subconscious acknowledgement, previously suppressed. You swore the phrase belonged to another being, but it was as refreshing as the breeze tousling Seonghwa’s locks.

“I know. I can wait too.”

“Soon, my love.”

“I-I know.”

“I miss you.”

“I-” vision growing hazy, you reached to the vampire for support, which he readily provided, “I- too.”

One blink - oil paints decorated your hands, and those alluring eyes were staring back at you from a canvas. Another blink - Seonghwa was repeating your name, pressing his cheek against yours as he shielded you from falling into darkness with his strong arms.

______ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ ⋆ .

Your office was inviting and offered a secure haven: a collection of neutral and wooden tones, with dashes of greenery to relax the eyes. From a potted ivy plant settled on the top of a large wall-length shelving unit to an indoor palm tree enjoying the rays in its designated corner, the room was a miniature paradise. You ran your hands over the thick birch desk, cautiously avoiding the stack of documents you had arranged for yourself to go through this day. Artwork restoration reports, contracts, exhibition plans for years to come… everything you thought you would never see, and yet it was right here in your palms.

Time moved slower, or at least that was how you began to perceive it now that it was in abundance. A fountain that did not cease to bestow gifts upon you - again, something you would have never imagined prior to the curious series of events that were your previous life unfolding the way they did. One fateful meeting, and you were a changed person, staring into the horizon and labelling it as a continuation rather than as a termination of all you could achieve. The world was your oyster, and loving dedication was the price. But when the price was so sweet, and so easy, who were you to say no? If you had to pick a concern, it would be the bandages and binding on your right arm; friction from the sleeve of the turtleneck and blazer you had worn today applying uncomfortable pressure to the delicate wound concealed within.

You stood up from the leatherbound office chair, adjusting your clothes and stepping to the window behind you to look out at the garden belonging to the gallery - a recent expansion. Grand, regal, and as the papers had emphasised, now returned to its rightful owner. You wondered just how much of the city had belonged to vampires at least for a portion of time, and you had no doubt that you would be making more discoveries soon, but for the time being, you were happy with the re-acquisition, or as Seonghwa had called it: your ‘turning’ gift. A particularly strong shift of the arm made you wince, and your other hand shot to nurse your sore arm.

“I’m so sorry darling, does it still hurt?” Unbeknownst to you, Seonghwa had slipped into the office, and immediately rushed towards you, concern painting his beautiful face through furrowed brows and a tiny scowl.

“N-no, barely. The sweater is silly-”

“Let’s not disregard ailments, shall we?” your partner gingerly lifted your arm, and after gaining permission through a few lethargic nods, pushed the sleeve upwards to reveal the bandages, “I- really, we need to apply the ointment again, that must be it-”

“Seonghwa-”

“Work can wait, I just need to-”

“My love-” Seonghwa paused his ramblings to stare back at you, puzzled, “it’s okay. Don’t worry about it. Literally just a bite, isn’t it?” you smiled, the action instantly being mirrored, albeit with a tinge of remaining worry.

“Mm, perhaps I am overreacting, I can’t help it,” your thoughts were numbed by the silken touch of his lips on the back of your hand, wool against cotton as he pulled you into an embrace, “it should heal well once you get used to your new form, I am sure of it,” his tresses tickled your nose, but you ignored it, instead letting your head fall against him.

You stood almost completely still aside from the rocking side to side that was habitual for you both. A lulling motion, one that either of you revealed only to each other. A secret reserved for intimate, loving moments such as this. You shook your head in amusement and buried your nose in Seonghwa’s sweater, inhaling the aroma of his sweet perfume, recalling ‘Love and Pain’ - the painting that had marked the tightening of the invisible string tying you together. Or was it? Coincidentally, on the wall behind your lover was the real inception of your union, one that you had forgotten from one lifetime to the next. A portrait. The one that Seonghwa had been chasing, and what had been his decades-long mission came to an end.

Signed with your own hand, were initials of your name and the year of completion of the painting. None other than the beloved collector and muse, Park Seonghwa, who had posed for you, or rather a version of you, and ever since then, you were the only one on his mind. You had been the master both of the arts and of his fate.

“Please, I am embarrassed…” your partner mumbled, settling for futile attempts to position you in such a way that you would be looking out at the garden, but to no avail. Poking him playfully at the side, you induce a halt, and question him:

“What is there to be embarrassed about? That’s you. Painted by me.”

“Exactly. And you have it in your office, of all places.”

“Well I can’t exactly have you, in the flesh, on display all the time and I would like a work of art around here-”

“Shh-”

“Don’t shush me, Park. Be grateful I don’t keep the sketches out too.”

In all honesty, He would not mind if you did. You could do anything, and the vampire would adore and honour it. Whether it was in your blood or in his nature, he had never regretted almost losing himself in your favour. In your last life, he had gone against all rules set up by vampires, playing against what he swore was the devil in order to have the sliver of a chance to start again and, this time not lose you. Had his plan not succeeded, it was highly probable that he would have been erased from this planet too. But he would rather call himself a masochist than be law-abiding when it came to you.

“Next, you’ll be threatening me with a showcase of just my face-”

“What if I do?” you quipped, pulling back to boop his nose with yours, “I think it would look very pretty. Besides, now that I remember my apparent mastery of the visual arts, can’t I be a tiny bit proud, hm?”

“I would be terribly disappointed if you weren’t. Now, may I put that ointment on you?”

As if you could refuse those sparkling eyes. Promptly following him to the loveseat, which unfortunately for Seonghwa was situated right under the portrait, you sat down and waited. Your partner rushed to the medical cupboard - another new addition installed exclusively to support you as you were getting used to the vampiric nuances in your day to day. With well-practised motions, the required kit was in his hands, and in a blink, set down on the plush cushioning of the miniature sofa. You held back a chuckle as you saw the pout you so loved appear as he focused on unwinding the bandage with utmost care. Before you could feel any hurt, Seonghwa would already let go, or alter the angle at which he was tugging on the material. As soon as the plaster was peeled, you were met with the reason for your eternity and reawakening.

Two deep punctures, still a little irritated, not quite healed, but nevertheless a marking of your future and something you regarded with fondness. Wounds did not hurt when they were merely physical, especially not when you had someone who had bound their immortality to yours to tend to them. Seonghwa bit his lower lip, discontented with the ache as though he could feel it too, and took numerous pauses while cleaning up the wound to glance at you.

“I’ll be applying the ointment now, tell me if it stings, okay?”

“Okay,” you knew it wouldn’t. You had never heard a man be so adamant on checking ingredients at an apothecary before following Seonghwa after your first appointment as a vampire. But just to appease him, you followed this small spoken routine.

“You know… I was scared,” his voice was barely audible, and he could not look at you.

“What were you scared of?”

“Losing you again.”

“Well, I am here, aren’t I?”

Even before you were aware of Seonghwa, let alone the truth behind the portrait, all the roads still led to the same resolution. The arts, art history. Virtually synonymous, for without creation, there would not be the past, and without the study of the past, there would not be the celebration and respect of creation. Finally, you understood the beauty of evolution that Seonghwa had undergone all while remaining the same vulnerable yet legendary figure, dedicated to his vision of the arts, having recollected your own.

“So many things could have gone wrong,” Seonghwa’s mind was reeling from the sheer terror of possibility. He had taken advantage of his high social standing as an aristocrat and pulled rank to avoid waiting for any ritual guides to step in - it was not the first time, but still only the second. And both cases were related to you.

The first time might have been a foolish decision in retrospect, but considering the dire circumstances the extreme solution was the only one. With one foot crossing to the afterlife he was combatting the reapers, and was not going to let go of you even if it meant being pulled in. This time, when you had approached him a number of nights ago with your final agreement to his tentative proposal and kissed his ruminations away, he was ready. Years of study were not going to waste, after all. And yet when he studied the same irises as those from a time long gone, when he held the same hands, his blood ran even colder. What a gambling man he had been back then. The procedure to regift life to you had been risky, and Seonghwa, having never practised those elements of the dark arts bestowed upon his kind, had been taking shot after shot in the dark. How dare he play with your being like that? How dare he hold your existence on a sinful scale?

“But they didn’t.”

No they did not. Your confidence in him had aided considerably, he had to admit. The positioning of his fangs was perfect, and he had memorised all incantations down to the inflections. Second time a charm, but much more anxiety-inducing. Turning was not the same as revival, either. He could not stop himself from imagining the many scenarios of where he would have gone wrong, and cemented your identity only as a name on manuscripts, dissertation, paintings and reports.

“Even the ritual, what if you did not remember-”

“I would love you just the same. Whether I had all my memories or not. That much I can assure you of. That is why I trusted you in the first place, Seonghwa.”

You did not need to be a mind reader to know what he was thinking. All you could do was suggest a brighter palette, and be by his side no matter what colour scheme he were to decide on. It was an artist’s duty to know when to set the tools aside and consider a painting finished. The luxury of a collector was to live through many paintings, unify the souls contained in each and sustain a chronology of expression. The keepers, the scholars, made to observe change rather than induce it directly. This was why you were all the more grateful for Seonghwa daring to change your mortal fate not once but twice, risking himself and his image in your favour.

When your partner was satisfied with his medical care, he hummed to notify you and began to clear up, at least until you placed a weak hand on his leather-clad thigh to gain his full attention. He searched for a hint in your features, eyes darting across your face at lightning speed. Relief came when you grinned brightly, whispering sincere gratitude.

Impressionism - the movement and path made by legends. A rejection of traditional practice, a new vision and interpretation of the outside world in the hues of the soul. Light, reality, immediate action. A breath that reset the arts, magnificent and radical for the time, and now, much adored. From its conception to its establishment, you were there to witness and fall in love, and now could look back at the beauty that had bloomed. His irises, your favourite colour. The speckles of various shades, your favourite details. You stared into Seonghwa’s eyes and did not dare blink. Your favourite impression.

🩸 perma-taglist: @acciocriativity @justhere4kpop @byuntrash101 @shakalakaboomboo @starillusion13 @uwuheeseungie @cheollipop @frankenstein852 @charreddonuts @miriamxsworld @mingigoo @michel-angelhoe @innsomniacshinestar @foxinnie8 @preciouswoozi @wooyoungjpg @nebulousbookshelf @wowie-hockey @hongjoongs-patience @jaehunnyy @kitten4sannie @maddkitt @lightinyreads @ren-junwrld @pyeonghongrie-main @marsstarxhwa @pocketjoong-reads @alyszaen @yeooclock @yeonjunnie @asjkdk @lucky-cat-cafe @northerngalxy

477 notes · View notes

bro-atz · 8 months

Text

persistent desire

in which: you and your childhood friends go drinking, and seonghwa confesses that he has at some point been attracted to you

pair: seonghwa/afab!reader

word count: 6k

content: smut, college!au, friends to ???, bedroom sex, insatiable!seonghwa, completely consensual!

apply for the permanent taglist here!

You laid there on your bed, your mind completely numb. You didn’t know how much time had passed for you dissociate this bad, but all you knew was that it was dark outside when you started, and now the sunrise was painting the apartment in shades of red and orange. You could hear him breathing hard, and you looked to see that he was still not satisfied. His eyebrows were furrowed and his lips were pressed together, but his hold on you was weak. That being said, he still had the energy and desperation to keep going.

It started that morning. Well, technically, it started years ago— like back in middle school years ago— but the trigger was that morning. The four of you were at the popular coffee shop on campus studying: you, Seonghwa, San, and Wooyoung. You all had your laptops in front of you and were typing away.

“I don’t like this assignment,” Wooyoung complained loudly.

“Why’d you even bother taking that class? It’s not even required for our major,” Seonghwa asked while rolling his eyes.

“I needed one more class and this was the only one that had space that fit in my schedule! If I don’t have a full load of courses, then my status becomes part-time, and I need to be a full-time student if I want to keep my scholarship.”

“How much is the scholarship?” San asked.

“Seventy-five percent of my current tuition.”

“Oof… Well, you still have to suffer through the assignment since you did choose the class in the first place,” you gave Wooyoung some much needed tough love.

With a huge, dramatic sigh, Wooyoung got back to his assignment. Periodically, Seonghwa leaned over your shoulder to look at what you were doing— the two of you were in the same class, so you both had the same assignment— and he did one of two things each time: either his shoulder rubbed against yours, or his knee would. He always did it to piss you off, and it was kind of working right now. By the fifth time he did that, you kicked his chair away, earning a laugh from him.

“Dude, knock it off! You can’t even cheat on this assignment!” you said with mild annoyance as you continued to push him away.

“I totally can, I just need to paraphrase,” he argued back with a light tone.

“You were assigned a different section! What do you mean?!”

That was how your friendship went. From the moment the two of you met in middle school, then when you added San and Wooyoung to your little friend group in high school, life barely changed— it only got more complex. The classes got harder, the homework heavier, and the relationships more serious. Well, it was mostly Wooyoung who was dating, but Seonghwa would bring a crazy bitch around every so often. San went on the occasional date, but you didn’t have the hint of a romantic life. Not a single guy ever looked at you. You wondered if it was because you spent a lot of time with three ridiculously attractive boys— that was the only logical explanation, after all.

“Alright, so what’s the plan for tonight?” Wooyoung asked after triumphantly closing his laptop.

“I’m free, as per usual,” you said.

“Same,” San added.

“Alright, that leaves you, Seonghwa.”

“I’m good, too,” Seonghwa nodded.

“You broke up with that crazy bitch?” Wooyoung asked with mild shock.

“We weren’t ever really dating, were we?”

“What do you mean? Of course you were,” San said with confusion.

“I would hardly consider three dates “dating”. Besides, we never even slept together.”

“Wow, she broke up with you, didn’t she?” you bit back a loud laugh.

“No, I broke up with her.”

“Sure, whatever you say, Romeo,” Wooyoung rolled his eyes as he responded sarcastically.

“I’m serious!”

The four of you packed up your things and left the coffee shop, Seonghwa still trying to convince you all that he did, in fact, break up with that last girl.

Since the four of you were free that evening, you all went to participate in Wooyoung’s favorite activity: drinking. And, of course, with drinking with Wooyoung game drinking games.

The local bar knew the four of you very well by that point in your lives. Sometimes, the bartenders would participate in the drinking games with you, but it was usually the four of you in a secluded booth with a whole bottle of house whiskey and beers aplenty. You sat across from Wooyoung and next to Seonghwa while San sat next to Wooyoung. You and Wooyoung had to take care of the other two boys since they were bad at holding their alcohol, so you each took turns babysitting the other boy.

“Alright, what game are we playing tonight?” Wooyoung clapped his hands together and rubbed them in anticipation.

“King’s Cup?” you suggested.

“Absolutely the fuck not. Not after what this asshole pulled last time,” San declined and pointed an accusatory finger at Wooyoung.

“What’d I do?!”

“You rigged the game! I kept pulling the last fucking king!”

“Oh, right. I did that,” Wooyoung accepted with a giggle.

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Titanic?” Seonghwa offered.

“No way,” you refused.

“Why?”

“Last time we played that, Wooyoung threw up all over my favorite pair of shoes,” you grimaced.

“If I promise not to do that again, will you let us play?” Wooyoung asked.

“No, I don’t trust you.”

Pouting, Wooyoung turned away. The rest of you chose to ignore his antics.

“Truth or dare?” San asked.

“But instead of dare, we drink,” Wooyoung amended.

“Alright, I’m game,” you accepted.

“Same,” Seonghwa nodded.

The game started very tame— well, Wooyoung was asking the wildest questions, getting San and Seonghwa drunk in record time. At some point, you had enough of his dumb questions and told him to actually play the game properly because you wanted to actually hear some hot gossip.

“San, when was the last time you had sex?” Wooyoung asked San.

San took a drink.

“Come on, bro. There’s no shame in telling us when,” Wooyoung nudged San’s shoulder.

“It’s been so long that I don’t even remember when,” San admitted.

“You could’ve just said that and not have to drink,” you pointed out.

“…Fuck.”

“Alright, let’s not ask this kid anymore questions,” you told Wooyoung.

Seonghwa, meanwhile, was silent. He was pretty tipsy, but not drunk. He usually observed his friends whenever he got drunk, but if someone talked directly to him, then he would respond. You always got a kick out of watching drunk Seonghwa.

“Seonghwa,” San turned to the man in question.

“Yes?” Seonghwa responded while slightly swaying to and fro.

“Have you ever been attracted to Y/N?”

“Yes.”

You, San, and Wooyoung were all shocked. You stared Seonghwa down as he continued to sway, but he definitely was not looking at you. San, unable to ask another question because he was completely and utterly shocked, froze, leaving Wooyoung to ask the next one.

“When?”

Seonghwa decided to drink instead of answer that question.

You don’t remember what happened the rest of the game— you dissociated so hard that you wondered if you blacked out because of the alcohol. However, it was not the alcohol that fucked you up; it was Seonghwa who did.

You didn’t even realize that San and Wooyoung left for the night. You only snapped out of your trance when Seonghwa leaned his head on your shoulder. You looked to see that he had his eyes closed and he let out a heavy sigh. Your shock turned into annoyance— if Seonghwa actually fell asleep on shoulder, you were going to murder him. Luckily, Seonghwa was not asleep.

“Y/N? Are you okay?” Seonghwa asked, his head still on your shoulder.

“Uh… Uh-huh,” you responded, unable to find words to properly convey exactly what was going through your mind.

“You don’t sound okay.”

“…I just have a lot on my mind.”

“Like what? You know you can tell me anything, right?”

Seonghwa lifted his head, giving you the chance to look at him with complete and utter disbelief. You wanted to tell him off for being a hypocrite, but he didn’t do anything wrong. He just played the game, and he played the game honestly. That wasn’t his fault, but you wanted to blame him for being a good sport.

But, Seonghwa could have also been lying for the sake of the game just to spice things up. He was a very giggly drunk, but he’s mentally aware of everything and has full control over his actions even when drunk out of his mind. He could have been messing with the group. You hoped he was messing with the group because there was no way in hell your best friend from back in middle school was attracted to you at any point in time.

“First, I need you tell me something,” you finally responded.

“Yeah?”

“Were you being serious earlier, or were you messing with us?”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you actually been attracted to me, or was that a lie?” you rephrased.

“I have been attracted to you.”

“When?”

Seonghwa took a sip of his beer— apparently the game was still going for him.

“Fine, then why?” you asked, exasperated.

“Go take a look in the mirror then get back to me.”

You felt your face get hot instantly. A drunk Seonghwa was shameless, but not once did you think his shamelessness was going to come your way. He took another nonchalant sip of his beer, and you decided to take another look at his face. His face was flushed, and his eyes were narrowed, but this wasn’t Seonghwa’s usual drunk self. Something was off, something that made butterflies storm through your body. You couldn’t tell if it was because of his confession, though.

“You’re seriously messing with me now, aren’t you?” you let out a weak laugh.

“Y/N, look at me,” Seonghwa said, his voice dropping down several decibels.

You did as he said, and a wave of heat rushed from your head to your toes. Seonghwa’s eyes were dark and filled with lust. He ran his tongue over his lower lip subtly, turning you on more than it should’ve. He leaned towards you ever so slightly, his hand holding onto the back of your chair. You nearly leaned back, but this was Seonghwa you’re talking about— he would never do anything to you, or anyone for that matter, without consent. You held your ground, Seonghwa’s face nearing yours.

“Do you think I’m joking now?” Seonghwa asked you softly.

“I believe you, but I also believe that you’re going insane.”

You pushed your chair away from the table and stood up, Seonghwa’s eyes following you as you did so. You grabbed your purse and stood there, Seonghwa still sitting.

“What’re you doing?” he asked.

“Waiting for you,” you responded. “You’re losing your goddamn mind, Seonghwa. We need to get you home.”

With a shrug, Seonghwa stood up. You genuinely thought he was going to stumble around based on how drunk you thought he was, but he carried himself well— so well, in fact, that he looked sober.

You left the bar first, and Seonghwa followed shortly thereafter. The two of you walked silently and side by side as you made your way back to your apartment complex.

“I think we should drop you off at home, first,” you told the man.

“No, I want to make sure you get home safe,” he denied.

“You drank a lot more than I did tonight.”

“Then, if you walk me home, will you stay the night?”

Another rush of heat. You looked away from him abruptly and at the dim sidewalk in front of you. You shook your head lightly; although it was Seonghwa who was saying those things to you, you didn’t feel like it was. Something was up with your friend, and it was making you nervous.

“That’s what I thought. Let me walk you home.”

The rest of the walk back was silent. You could barely think about anything without the sound of your heart beating loudly drowning out any thoughts you had left in your head.

“Y/N?” Seonghwa called your name, startling you.

“Yeah! Yeah?”

“I’ve been trying to get your attention for a while, now. What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” you said, which was the truth.

“Well, we’re here. Will you be okay getting up to your room?”

“Yes, but I seriously wonder if you’ll get home safe,” you said honestly.

“I’ll call a cab or something,” he assured you.

You nodded. You looked down at your feet, realizing that you were unable to leave. You usually just waved good-bye and fully left, or other times, Seonghwa would crash at your place. This time, however, was different. Your legs were frozen. You didn’t know why.

“Y/N? Are you going to go up?”

“Oh, yeah. Right. Good night, Hwa.”

Usually, after you guys hung out, he would hug you goodbye, and he did that this time, too. Before you could even take a step away, Seonghwa held your arm gently and turned you around, his arms outstretched and waiting expectantly for a hug. You hugged him. It wasn’t like he forced you to, but you felt so weird about just ignoring the fact that your friend of many, many years was asking for a hug as he usually did. This is silly, you thought to yourself. It was just a game, and Seonghwa’s just being a stupid flirt. He wasn’t being serious, so why were you taking him so seriously?

The hug lasted longer than you were expecting. You thought it was going to be a light hug and then bye. However, Seonghwa’s secure arms held you tightly and close. Even the way he was hugging you this time was different. It was a lot more sensual. He wrapped one arm around your waist and then the other over your shoulder, his face buried in the nook of your neck. You felt like your entire body was going to erupt into flames at that point.

When Seonghwa leaned away from you, he was still hugging you. Likewise, you were still hugging him. You gazed into his dark, lust filled eyes once again. You couldn’t take it anymore.

“Seonghwa, I’m going to ask you one more time,” you whispered. “Have you really been attracted to me?”

“Y/N, I don’t know how many times you want me to tell you, but yes. I have.”

“Are you attracted to me right now?”

“That’s not fair. You can’t ask that kind of question without letting me have the option of drinking,” Seonghwa frowned.

“But are you?” you pressed further.

Seonghwa pulled you closer into his embrace. He still wouldn’t say anything, which was ticking you off.

“Do you need me to spell it out for you?” Seonghwa asked with a deep sigh.

“I want you to state it explicitly before I say or do anything else.”

“Y/N…”

“Last chance, Seonghwa,” you warned him. “Are you attracted to me right now?”

“Yes.”

Your impulse took over. You wrapped your arms over his shoulders and held onto the back of his neck to pull him to you, your lips connecting. You felt his hold on you get tighter as he kissed you back again and again and again. He let out tiny, muffled grunts with every kiss.

You felt like he was eating you alive. His tongue immediately slipped into your mouth. His hands slipped down to your waist, his fingers pressing into you firmly. You yelped as you felt his teeth bite your lower lip lightly and tug upwards, making your libido scream for him to just ravage you.

Next thing you knew, Seonghwa was pulling you into your own apartment. He dragged you roughly to your bed and tossed you on there, the bed springs squeaking as you bounced on the mattress.

“Seong—”

He wouldn’t even allow you to say his name. His lips roughly met yours once more as he pinned you to the bed.

The way he was treating you in bed made you think of two things: one, he was so hot when he was unnecessarily aggressive; and two, why did he suddenly get to this point? You knew that the two of you were horny as fuck for each other in that moment, but the way he was acting was out of desperation, not lust.

You were only able to finally get words out when Seonghwa stopped kissing you to start stripping.

“Seonghwa, before you start again, I have more questions,” you sat up and held your hand out to stop him from pinning you to the bed again.

A look of frustration crossed Seonghwa’s face as he pulled off his shirt. But, nonetheless, he waited for you to ask your questions.

“Why are you acting like this?”

Seonghwa let out a heavy sigh and ran his fingers through his hair (which turned you even more since he looked so hot when he was annoyed or frustrated). He stood in front of you with his hands on his hips and asked mockingly, “What do you want me to say? That I’m hot for you? That I’m horny? That I really need my dick inside you?”

“Seonghwa, please be serious…”

Silently, Seonghwa got on the bed and pinned you down once again. His lips neared your ear, his soft breath sending shivers down your neck. His hands held your wrists down, and his knees trapped your waist.

“Y/N, I don’t know how else to show you I’m serious. I wouldn’t be in bed with you like this right now if I wasn’t interested in you.”

“But,” you breathed out. “You’re… Attracted to me? Of all people, me?”

“Y/N,” Seonghwa said softly as he pressed his lips against your ear gently. “You’re sexy and gorgeous and captivating.”

He trailed his lips down the side of your neck, his fingers pulling your shirt off your shoulder. You suppressed a moan when his other hand held both your wrists above your head, his tongue returning to your neck and trailing upwards.

“You like me?”

“Of course I like you,” Seonghwa replied softly into your neck.

“Romantically?”

Seonghwa stopped. He moved away from you enough where he could make eye contact with you, but his chest was still pressed against yours. He opened his mouth and said something, but you couldn’t hear him at all despite the fact that he was mere centimeters away from you.

“What— Oh my God!”

It was physically impossible for you to ask him questions after that. He quickly pulled down the waistband of your pants and panties and shoved his middle two fingers into you with so much force that your entire body jerked. He let go of your wrists to caress your face, his warm fingertips practically burning a hole into the skin on your cheek while his lips made yours feel raw with his intense kisses. His fingers kept thrusting into you roughly with no remorse, tears slipping out of your eyes as his forcefulness drove you to euphoria. You cried out when he added a third finger, instantly making you cum.

No matter how much you whimpered and tried to grab his wrists in a feeble attempt to get him to let up, Seonghwa continued to finger you over and over again, another orgasm overcoming you mere seconds after the first one. Tears slipped out of your eyes one after the other, your body trembling as he finally removed his fingers from you fully, only for him to move down on you. He held onto the bottoms of your thighs and pushed them upwards, giving him more access to your completely sopping wet pussy. You thought he was going to go right for the jackpot, but instead he left painful hickeys along the insides of your thighs, his tongue trailing along to each new spot on your thighs until he finally arrived at your pussy.

Seonghwa’s tongue violating your pussy was a completely different kind of pleasure than when his tongue was violating your mouth. Seonghwa was truly a master of utilizing his tongue for pleasure. When his tongue licked upwards and pressed through your pussy’s lips so that he was in the most literal sense tongue-fucking you, a surge of pleasure swept through your body. You raked your fingers through his hair and held onto the roots of his hair for dear life as you felt yet another orgasm come your way.

Proper words evaded you as you came right in Seonghwa’s mouth, and hearing him slurp your pussy up right after made all sorts of thoughts fly through your pleasure-ridden brain swimming in pheromones. You moaned loudly and flung your head back into your pillow as his tongue flicked your clit wildly before toying with it and drawing circles around it. Even more tears slipped out of your eyes the longer it took for this— what was it, fourth?— orgasm to hit you. You let out the most erotic cry when Seonghwa sucked hard on your clit and inserted two fingers into your cunt, and when Seonghwa curled his fingers inside you, that was when you came once more.

As you laid in what you could only describe as a puddle of yourself, Seonghwa moved away from you to take off his pants and grab a condom from your nightstand.

“Seonghwa,” you said his name quietly, your voice wavering as you were afraid that he would overtake you if you tried to speak again.

“Y/N?” Seonghwa responded after he rolled the condom on.

You didn’t even know what you wanted to say to him. Your brain was still swimming, and the only word you could think to say was his name. “Seonghwa,” you repeated.

Seonghwa understood at that point. He moved towards you so that he was kneeling right in between your legs, his penis resting on the bottom of your stomach. Maybe it was because you had tears in your eyes, but it looked like Seonghwa had a weapon of mass destruction.

At first, Seonghwa reached out to your face to wipe your tears, but he stopped— why bother wiping the tears from your eyes if you were just going to have them water up again? So, eyes bleary, you watched as he positioned himself at your entrance. He leaned forward and pressed his lips into the nook of your neck, the tip of his dick barely inside you.

He didn’t really warn you after that. He fully thrusted into your extremely wet pussy, his cock moving in with ease and filling you up entirely— but, because you were incredibly wet, his waist slammed into yours. You choked out a cry. Your hands immediately went to his shoulders and clutched so hard that your nails left tiny crescents in his skin. You didn’t even have the chance to relax your hold on him. He was coming at you with full force, his tempo not changing in the slightest.

“Hnn— Hwa!” you moaned as he continued to slam his dick inside you without letting up. “S-slower! Please!”

“Sorry, Y/N, I seriously can’t stop,” Seonghwa grunted.

He held your waist and pulled you up slightly, making it easier for him to thrust even harder into you. Your hands slipped from his shoulders, causing you to reach for his arms for support instead. You got a good look at his face and saw his eyes darken as the blush on his face reddened. His breathing got rougher, and right before he came, he bit his lower lip and slammed into you one last time. The look on his face was enough to make you cum as well. Seonghwa groaned in pleasure while you cried his name out again. His hold on you relaxed as he pulled out of you. The two of you were panting hard as Seonghwa moved away from you and got off the bed to remove his filled condom.

You thought he would be done. He released a huge load into that condom, so you genuinely thought that he was done for the night. He was far from done, apparently. The second you heard him rip open another condom pack, you froze and looked at him nervously.

“Seonghwa…?” you asked with a shaky voice as you felt the bed dip when he got back on it.

“Y/N, turn around,” Seonghwa said in response.

With his assistance, you turned so that you were on your knees, your hands propping you up. You knew exactly what was coming your way, and although you knew and tried to prepare, you still were completely shocked when Seonghwa thrusted his penis into you with the same immense force as before. You cried out as you felt his hands hold onto your ass cheeks tightly, his fingernails lightly digging into your skin. Despite the fact that you were on your knees, your arms felt like they were ready to give. You went down to your elbows, raising your ass slightly, earning you a pleasant groan from the man pleasuring you.

“Fuck, Y/N,” Seonghwa bit out before letting out a louder groan, his dick trembling inside of you.

You were weak. You were only able to sit up and kneel on the bed when Seonghwa helped you sit up, his hand on your breast. From behind, he massaged your breast and nibbled on the skin on your neck lightly, your entire body immediately reacting by purring in delight. He let out a deep exhale right next to your ear, making your body tremble even more.

“You’re driving me crazy… How are you so sexy?” Seonghwa asked quietly, unaware that you heard him.

Still not allowing you more than a minute to recover, Seonghwa turned your face and kissed you passionately. His thumb caressed your cheek and went past your ear, heat immediately rushing to your ear. You were so drawn into his sweet kiss and your tongue dancing with his that you didn’t even realize that he had moved you so that he was laying on the bed with your knees trapping his waist. It was only when he broke off the kiss and pushed your shoulders away from him that you realized what he wanted from you.

“Wait,” Seonghwa whispered, his fingers fumbling behind you as he replaced his condom. Once he was ready, he then said, “Okay. Get on.”

You sat up slightly, allowing Seonghwa to position himself before sitting down slowly. You muffled a moan, your eyes nearly rolling to the back of your head as you leaned your head back. You felt like his dick shot all the way through you despite the fact that you took your time sitting down. His dick throbbed painfully inside you as you timidly began to move. You gripped his shoulders tightly as you bounced up and down, the sound of your waist hitting his along with your erratic moans and gasps echoing in the room.

“Seonghwa, I can’t,” you whimpered as you felt your hands begin to slip. “My thighs are trembling…”

Without a word, Seonghwa held your hands and pulled you towards him, guiding you so that your chest was pressed against his. He then moved his hands to your ass and assisted you while simultaneously forcing his hips upwards, making your whole body lurch. His lips then connected with yours, overwhelming your brain to the point where your body lost self control. You couldn’t even make the effort to cum properly by moving away from his dick, so the pleasure and satisfaction of your orgasm just got greater from there.

He then flipped you so that you were laying down on the bed once more. He got off the bed and held your legs tightly, guiding them upwards as he pulled you to the edge of the bed. You clutched the bedsheets below you tightly when he rested your legs against his shoulders. Without a second to waste, he slid his dick inside you once again.

Seonghwa held your waist tightly while he continued to thrust at a steady rate, but once he moved his hands down to your ass, he got much faster within seconds. You crossed your legs behind his head as you tried to suppress another significant wave of pleasure, which ended up really turning Seonghwa on.

“You got so tight… Shit, Y/N,” Seonghwa cursed.

You unconsciously bucked your hips upwards when his hands spread your ass cheeks wide. With a sharp inhale, Seonghwa slammed his waist into you, and you felt his cum fill up the condom and warm you up even more.

Seonghwa had cum three times at that point. You thought for sure that he would be done by now, that his balls would be completely drained, but you were wrong and more wrong. Seonghwa could still go.

You looked to the side to see filled condoms piled to the top of the trashcan in your room. You didn’t even realize you had so many condoms in your home in the first place, making you wonder if Seonghwa would stop if you ran out of condoms— but Seonghwa was insatiable, apparently, because he just kept going and going, profanities leaving his lips exponentially.

With a grunt of frustration, Seonghwa pulled out and moved your waist, both of your feet resting on the bed as he propped your knees up. He completely took you by surprise when he lifted your waist up, allowing him to fuck you from a different angle. You felt the tip of his dick glide past your g-spot, your eyes flying open as he repeated the action over and over and over again. You ran your fingers through your hair and cried loudly as your fluid shot out of your body when Seonghwa pulled out suddenly.

Seonghwa’s thighs and torso were covered with your slick. Through bleary eyes, you saw the ghost of a smirk appear on his face, making your brain melt all over again. You closed your eyes and pushed your head back into the bed as you regained your breath and calmed your racing heart. Seonghwa pinned his arms on either side of you as he bent down to leave you with another one of his mind-numbingly amazing kisses. The sounds of your wet kisses reverberated through the room. Seonghwa caressed your face gently as he kissed you over and over again as if he just couldn’t get enough of you.

That was when you were finally able to form a singular thought and vocalize it to him.

“Seonghwa,” you whispered as he released you from his kissing bind, your eyes barely maintaining contact with his.

Seonghwa hummed.

“I like you.”

You watched Seonghwa freeze. He looked right into your eyes and stared at you, his face completely red. He wrapped his arms around your body and hugged you, his lips brushing past your collarbone and neck.

“Say that again,” he whispered in your ear.

“I like you.”

Seonghwa sat up. His hands guided your waist so that you, too, were sitting up. He sat you right in between his legs and hugged your waist, his intense gaze making it near impossible to maintain eye contact with him. A small smile threatened to appear on his face as he leaned closer to you. His soft breaths tickled your chest, making you want to squirm in his embrace.

“How? In what way?”

“In a way that I want to see what a relationship with you would look like.”

“So, romantically?”

At first, you wanted to say no, because that definitely wasn’t the feeling you had; but, when he held you even closer and nuzzled his nose into the crook of your neck, you felt butterflies swarm through you and couldn’t help but cling to him, your hands holding his shoulders tightly.

“I think it could get there,” you murmured.

You felt Seonghwa’s lips against your skin, his mouth pulling into a smile. He left small smooches all over your shoulder, neck, and face, making your body flush to a slightly darker red. His hands went from your waist to your ass, lifting you up a tiny bit off the bed— he wanted to be inside you again. Again. You adjusted yourself and went from holding his shoulders to pressing the palms of your hands on the bed and behind you. He moved forward, his cock sliding right into you. You both rocked your hips in and out of each other, his dick hitting deep inside you.

The feeling of his cock reaching so far inside you was enough to make you cum. Seonghwa, too, apparently; he slammed his hips into you with one final, powerful stroke before the two of you came at the same time, the two of you calling the other’s name in the same moment.

The sun was fully up in the sky by the time Seonghwa’s dick finally calmed down. You were using his arm as a pillow as the two of you laid in your bed. You wrapped your arm around his torso and gave him a light hug, prompting him to rest his head on top of yours.

“You’re insatiable, Seonghwa,” you broke the silence between you two. “Are you always like this?”

“No.”

“So what changed for you to be like this?”

“I’ve been holding back for a long time Y/N.”

“How long?”

“Eighth grade.” You gasped and looked up at him in shock as he continued, “To be honest, I thought it was just some sort of small school crush and that it would disappear over time, but the crush kind of stayed buried until last night.”

“So, if you’ve liked me since then, why did you beat around the bush so hard last night?”

“I wasn’t sure if you felt or would ever feel the same way about me,” Seonghwa admitted honestly. “It’s always nice to hear that someone’s attracted to you, so I wanted to leave it at that in case you definitely didn’t feel anything for me.”

You nodded in understanding and cuddled closer to him, your eyes briefly closing before a sudden thought came into your head.

“Can I tell you something?” you asked him quietly.

Seonghwa merely nodded.

“It’s a good thing you didn’t say anything through middle and high school.”

“Why is that?”

“Because you pre-puberty was just not it,” you couldn’t help but giggle. “I would’ve rejected you in the eighth grade so fast.”

“How dare you!” Seonghwa feigned injury.

His arms instantly hugged you tightly, and he lowered himself so that he could sink his teeth lightly into the skin on your neck. You let out a little yelp as he pushed his body towards yours and slightly weighing you down as his lips neared your ear.

“I’m going to make you regret telling me that,” he whispered ominously.

You were about to retort when you felt his erect dick press against your stomach. You wondered if Seonghwa was even going to let you sleep at all that day— but you already knew the answer: no.

#park seonghwa #seonghwa smut #ateez #seonghwa x reader #park seonghwa ateez #seonghwa ateez #ateez seonghwa #broatz

801 notes · View notes

hubristicassholefight · 6 months

Text

Swordswoman showdown FINALS

Hornet (Hollow Knight) vs Xena (Xena: Warrior Princess)

(Better here in a "preferred character" sense, not "who would win in a fight")

Propaganda below cut

Hornet

Technically its not a sword but she wields a needle in a setting where swords do not exist and she wields it in an exceedingly swordlike fashion so. She counts; Girlboss demigoddess spider lady. She's been protecting an entire kingdom for longer than many of the other characters have been alive. She systematically kills her siblings for being too weak. She's simply the best.

#im pretty sure hornet can beat like. anyone in a fight.#have you ever fought hornet#its so fucking hard getting past her every time i play hk i go literally insane.

#i remember getting stuck on the first hornet fight on mt first play through and bring likr#''omg the boss fights in this are so hard!!!''#like what. you're not even half way through what are you talking about#you can't even DASH honey. you don't know what's diffcult or not in this game.

So, SPOILERS

but I feel like the "she systematically kills her siblings" part needs a little clarification. See, one of her siblings was used as a living prison for an angry god and that uh. Didn't work out for the sibling in question or anyone else.

This account is itself heavily abbreviated but it's likely that any other sibling Hornet encounters will be trying to take over as the god's new prison. She appears to challenge any sibling she sees to battle, in order to test their resolve against herself and her needle - would they actually have a chance against that god?

We never actually see her kill any siblings, but she does quite pointedly tell one of them that (to paraphrase) "My needle is lethal and I would feel no sadness in a weakling's demise."

Feels like a relevant quote. In any case, if they can't beat Hornet, it seems like her needle would be a far more merciful end than what the god would grant.

Anyway, a bit of additional material for @swordswomanshowdown :

As is the case for any cool swordswoman, it's not just her sword that's lethal, it's her with it. And Hornet's needle was custom made for her - the creators have said that, while other needles exist, hers was made specifically for her to wield, and its construction allows her to use her spider silk better in combat.

And another thing that I think makes her a good swordswoman: she's actually pretty thoughtful about how she uses it. There's a least one instance where she tries to warn someone off before fighting them! At the same time, when she does fight, she seems to enjoy it - during her boss battles, you can hear her laugh sometimes, as if exhiliarated. She's really got it all, as a swordswoman!!!

#HORNET SWEEP CMON PLEEEEEEASE#shes gay. shes the only sibling with a gender. shes a spider named HORNET. look like croissant. whats not to like

Xena

Warrior Princess

She wields a sword and chakram. Just had to submit a biconic swordswoman.

i love her. she made me gay as a kid. Anyway, her weapon of choice is her sword, she is obviously very good with it

#unfortunately i have to choose and i have to choose xena#a) utena had no warcry. b) xena fought gods. c) xena has kickass goofy comic book combat which is my favorite

xena didn’t just fight gods. she fucked up a girl’s life so bad that she (calisto) devoted her entire being to destroying everything that xena loved that ended up with calisto becoming a god in order to destroy xena, which didnt work because xena entombed her in lava. and then when xena and gabrielle encountered calisto in the (christian) afterlife (different from the greek one which they also fought her in), calisto dragged gabrielle to hell so xena became an archangel in order to save gabrielle and then sacrificed herself in order to undo all the harm that she did in calisto’s life and then when not!jesus (played by timothy omundson) revives xena and gabrielle, calisto impregnates xena with the reincarnation of calisto’s soul in order to end the cycle of hate. xena doesnt just fight gods. she creates and destroys them

#this isnt even mentioning her fighting julius ceasar several times#telling brutus that caesar is not his friend#xena and gabrielle’s souls reincarnating across centuries in order to kick ass and fall in love all over again#or the time xena became a god but tbh that ep is kinda ‘uhhhhh…..’ even if they did hire a consultant for it

#I think everyone here knows to vote for Xena. I think a couple people here might have some propaganda for Xena saved already#everyone remember that Xena/Gabrielle is CANON and that's a pretty big deal also#(does anyone have that Xena Loves Trans People interview around because that would also make good propaganda)

I love Xena ❤️ 😍 💖 ❣️

#hornet #hollow knight #xena #xena: warrior princess #swordswoman showdown #poll #official #round 6 #finals

548 notes · View notes

snotbuggle · 25 days

Text

Omega when she gets to jail and realizes that she now has to big sister four other children. One of which is nowhere near her age.

Going to try and condense some more serious thoughts about these episodes down below so I can avoid spoiling someone as much as possible and not post a dozen times. I don’t want to miss tag any one of those.

Jex/Jek?? I can’t completely remember his name, but the mirialan kid is for sure not going to trust her at all. Can’t say much for the pantoran kid since they haven’t shown much of them so far, but Eva is going to love her.

I think the mirialan kid is definitely going to be skeptical of Omega’s prior knowledge of the facility, Emerie, and why they’re there. Although he might overlook these things hanging on her promise that her brothers will get her, and in turn them, out of there. I can’t help but wonder what Omega and the others will think after about a week and there still not being a rescue. (These two are assuming that she will be placed with the other force sensitive children. Although she may be moved since her blood actually works for project Necromancer)

Crosshair is definitely going to hear it from Hunter. ESPECIALLY after he threw Hunter’s past failure to keep her out of Tantiss in his face. What I think will weigh on his conscience more though is the fact he thinks she’ll be alone this time. In a way she definitely will, but I have no doubt that he realizes he was probably the highlight of her day. He was probably the one thing that kept her hopeful even if he tried to talk down on her and get her to leave. Yes, she had hope that Hunter and Wrecker would find her, but she also needed someone there with her. A familiar face and not someone who just revealed they were your sister out of the blue. Her situation has changed, but Crosshair doesn’t know that. The Crosshair guilt is going to be so real in these last episodes.

Switching gears, CX agents are always a cool and interesting topic for me. While the identity of CX-2 isn’t usually as engaging, I have to say that I’ve drifted from the standpoint of “there’s no way that’s Tech” to “it’s a possibility” over the course of the last two episodes. I’ve seen some fun ideas for who it is otherwise. Personally, I think that they’re probably just another copy paste man with no autonomy anymore.

ANYHOW! I haven’t seen anyone talk about it much, but the scene with Hemlock reviewing the CX agent data and the capsule has me thinking a little harder on their creation/conditioning. The way Hemlock talks about the other operatives as well. “The others aren’t ready to join you” (paraphrasing) seems to show that after the mental conditioning through obviously brutal means, it takes a load of time to physically condition the agents. Seeing as CX-1 was most likely initiated around the same time as Crosshair (I choose to believe that they were near each other’s tables which is why they’re familiar), that took around five months to half a year. In that time span there had to be a lot of soldiers who Hemlock saw fit to be “reprogrammed” but we see very few operatives throughout. This means that if they make it out of mental conditioning, physical conditioning is most likely very dangerous and often times fatal. I’d like to draw attention to the capsules as a part of that physical conditioning. There were several capsules that Hemlock was observing, along with the foggy one that is most likely that new Huyang-lookin-ass operative. If these capsules are the final stage of physical conditioning, it adds meaning to CX-2’s first line, “Why have I been activated?” (Once again paraphrasing). Although the capsules could be for something else entirely.

Also a bit of a gripe, why in the world do you need a new secret-secret operative, Hemlock? You have the commandos, and then the first X troopers, now the CX’s, and what? You wanted a new one? I can’t tell if this man is an overachiever or just way too absorbed into the advanced trooper rabbit hole. Also for you Tech theorists, it’s kinda suspicious that he makes a new version of agents isn’t it? Almost like there’s something…deviant about him?

Completely side tracking here, I really like Phee’s awareness in the station. Yeah she didn’t hear the blaring alarm, but she was in a room where it’d be hard to hear anyways. However, when she got back she felt something was off about the ramp. We’ve seen how slick CX-2 is, so her noticing something is up was a nice touch imo. Also was very appreciative of her caution and readiness with her knife. I love when female characters get to be aware of their surroundings and ready to throw hands if things go south.

In conclusion, thank you for listening to my dump-rambling. I’ve been trying to keep my lips shut so I don’t miss tag anything and spoil it for someone (because I know that I’ll forget to tag everything right). I hope Wrecker is okay. And even if I’m not a Tech CX theorist, I have to admit that I’ve been seeing some fairly strong parallels.

249 notes · View notes

starqueensthings · 3 months

Text

A very Crosshair Character Analysis

I posted a poll the other day looking for some opinions, and the prompt was: does Crosshair ever truly miss a shot? Meaning, of all the shots we’ve seen him aim and fire, how many of the few that didn’t land, were intended not to land? Does Crosshair have the skill and ability to land every shot he takes, and what of the ones that go astray (because there are some!)? The overarching, collective opinion (77% of votes) is that the sniper only misses a shot when he intends to, but let me explain why I was asking— the "methods behind my madness," if you will… (Fasten your seatbelts, and keep all extremities— and pitchforks— inside the ride!)

If Crosshair “doesn’t miss”, then there are some things that demand consideration and possible explanation. Please accept this weird internet essay as a deep dive into Crosshair’s character based solely on how I perceived his actions throught season one and two, and opinions I formed while watching his character develop. And while this could not be a Tech-approved analysis without touching on both his perceived good qualities and “flaws”, please know this is not a hate-on-Crosshair post.

Before I get into specifics, I think it’s imperative that we establish a basic understanding of his personality before the chip’s activation. While there is, sadly, not much “footage” we can use to form a true characterization of him, there are some instances we can touch on. The Skako/Anaxes arc from TCW and the earliest few moments of “Aftermath”, Crosshair is shown to be quite sarcastic, uninterested in trivial conversation, measurably combative toward those with differing opinions to his (seemingly all regs, including but not limited to Kix and Jesse), moderately argumentative toward leadership outside of his own Sergeant (mainly Rex, as Crosshair seems to have no qualms following Anakin’s or Cody’s orders), comforting to those who need it (Echo), and an overall good tactical team player.

So, let’s start this analysis by dialling things way back to their mission on Kaller and the complications that arose once Order-66 had been dropped. More specifically, hunting Caleb down in the forest. One of the things I noticed upon first watching that scene and every re-watch since, is how often Crosshair toggles back and forth between blaster bolt and stun cartridge on his rifle, as if constantly battling the indecision of exactly how he wanted to detain the Jedi. Now, if you remember, Tech com’s in and basically says [paraphrased obviously]: “Shit is starting to his the fan, we better get our butts outta here,” to which Hunter responds: “Can’t. Haven’t found the kid yet.” Crosshair then chimes in with, what I have long-deemed to be his catch phrase: “Wrong,” and proceeds to shoot the branch that Caleb is perched on. Not Caleb, who, in Crosshair's mind, should be the rightful recipient of a kill shot… the branch. Hmmmm.

If every one of Crosshair’s shots is so masterfully aimed that its deemed an automatic hit, and thus every miss is intentional (a notion of which I also believe, less one particular shot which I’ll touch on a little later), then there would’ve had to have been a portion of Crosshair’s cognition overriding that Order-66 command to eradicate all Jedi, even if it was only enough to fleetingly switch his gun to stun.

Not long afterward, we see his beloved Firepuncher saber-whacked from his hands, and Crosshair opts to then continue his attack with his backup DC17. Missed shot, missed shot, missed shot, missed shot. Were these blown shots intentional as well? And if so, why does he continue to assail the Padawan? Is Crosshair only able to fight off the command to kill Caleb while his finger is on the trigger, possibly knowing that’s when the fight against his own mind becomes most crucial? Is he clinging to some autonomy in the moments where he’s not posing an imminent threat to those around him, like during the flight back to Kamino? Or can he only resist the chip’s influence when the urge to do something terrible is paramount?

Let’s skip ahead, shall we, to when the Batch is attempting to flee Kamino with Omega. Crosshair sashays onto the landing platform in his new gothboy armour, fresh out of an undescribed chip “augmentation” procedure (whatever that eludes to), and proceeds to have a small stand off with Hunter— both of whom have their weapons directed pointedly away from each other (interesting). During the succeeding fire fight, we see Crosshair line up several well aimed shots, many of which appear to be only inches away from landing on their “intended target”. He eventually succeeds in shooting Wrecker in the shoulder, and I’d like to point out that this shot lands almost exactly where Wrecker was hit by the training droid some hours/days previously. Was the placement of this shot intentional? Did Crosshair pick that particular target area knowing Wrecker would survive the damage?

The shot I find most intriguing is the one near-perfectly aimed at Hunter’s head (lol— brothers). You know, the one where Omega saves the day by unexpectedly blasting Crosshair’s rifle out of his hands. If the chip's activation was the reason he was now hunting them and claiming their treason, why had that moment seen him hesitate? Perhaps he needed a second to line up his shot, you might argue to which I would say argue: we’ve seen him use the active recoil from that same rifle to line up his next shot many times in quick succession with a zero margin of error (see the Skako/Anaxes arc in TCW and the first few minutes of Kaller), including when each shot was aimed at targets both more dynamic in action and further away than Hunter was.

Crosshair then takes several shots at the ramp of the Marauder as they take off, all of which are well aimed… and simultaneously redundant; the passengers are taking cover in the ship already, the Marauder has begun its take off, the ramp is closing, Crosshair running whilst knowing he can’t reach them. I personally attribute those last few shots as tokens of both anger and resentment for being left behind, not ones made with the intention of killing. I think that he expected his brothers to know him better than to believe these actions were of sound mind— he thought they’d be able to deduce that he was fighting a losing battle inside his own head, yet they were quick to believe he would actually entertain such sudden and aggressive hostilities toward them.

At this point, you might be itching to argue that maybe Crosshair's accuracy is largely diminished when he opts for a pistol instead of his rifle, and while I can't dispell this theory, I can provide some statistics. We see Crosshair use a pistol only four times in the entirety of the show so far: 1. against Caleb on Kaller (objective miss), 2. against the Batch Batch as their leaving Kamino (objective miss), 3. against a soldier while he and his new elite soldier squad infiltrate Saw's camp (direct hit), and 4. against Leiutenant Nolan when that asshole he gets on Crosshair's last nerve at the Outpost (direct hit). I will leave it up to you to decide if the theory of whether his skill level changes based on the weapon he's firing holds any merit, or is worth further discussion.

Moving on— the 99-clan is reunited on Bracca. Let’s turn our attention to the shot Crosshair takes at Tech whilst the latter was emerging from the ion engine, and I’m going to include pics this time to support my assertion.

Crosshair has an undeniably clear shot— his line of sight is not impeded, there are no environmental or atmospheric disturbances to disrupt his composure, he was ready and waiting for them to appear. The shot that he fires lands a good distance in front of Tech. Though the unexpectedness of it was enough to startle the genius into nearly falling out of the engine, I believe it was intentionally aimed this way (see below). A warning shot if you will. A “Hello, I outsmarted you and am waiting at your point of attempted escape. Stop trying, and get down here because I don’t want my new imperial cohorts to take aim for me and kill you” shot.

The next arc (Ryloth) quickly demonstrates that any neurological augmentations he’s been subject to (at this point, I believe we've been shown two, but have been led to believe there were several), have had no effect on Crosshair’s infamous sniper skills. First, he fires a perfectly aimed tracking beacon onto the moving target of Gobi’s ship. Then, upon the ship’s return, uses a single shot to disable one of the engines; a shot taken from, what appears to be, several kilometres away and having the immediate desired affect of disabling the ship. Finally, he makes the astoungingly precise shot (and I’m using astoundingly very heavily here) of blasting Senator Taa in the head. This shot, more than the previously mentioned two, are a sign of his impeccable marksmanship. Let me remind you, he was an undisclosed albeit very far distance away, on the opposite ridge of an enshadowed canyon, and is still able to shoot the senator in a place in which HE WOULD SURVIVE the attack. And not just survive, “make a full recovery” as Rampart claims afterward. This is unrivalled accuracy, and while I do not support the assassination attempt in itself, I can not deny how much skill was required to have achieved it.

My next point is something I have always personally found quite compelling, and it occurs in an off-the-cuff, likely forgotten about piece of dialogue.

Brief context: Crosshair has scooped Hunter off of Daro, they’ve landed on Kamino, and the duo (and a third soldier) are on their way to the Command Center to await the rest of the squads arrival. One of Crosshair’s elite troopers waits until he departs the platform before approaching Rampart and saying: “I question the clone’s motives with his old squad. I don’t trust any of them.” I’m intrigued to know where such a potent mistrust began. Is it simply because he’s a clone? A person born and raised unnaturally in comparison to someone with a traditional gestation and upbringing? Or has this soldier previously identified possible cracks in Crosshair’s imperial facade? Has Crosshair failed to hide his distress in quiet moments where he possibly longs for the life he had with his brothers? What is it that triggers this soldier to suspect Crosshair has an ulterior motive in capturing his old squad, and one that they’re apparently worried would not coincide with Rampart’s ideals?

Ramparts reply, in my opinion, gives us a well disguised clue: “If his plan fails, none of them will be a problem any longer.” If his plan fails. Crosshair’s plan. Crosshair has a plan for mobilizing his old family into one place, and what is it? Is he concealing the hidden objective of a reunion with his brothers under the guise of squad assassination? Was it always his plan to eliminate his new elite squad members, hence the perfectly placed mirror pucks we see him utilize in the training room, to make room for his old squad?

Remember, Hunter asks him some time later: “So this was your grand plan? Bring us here and kill us?” Crosshair answers: “If I wanted you dead, you would be.” And this is a statement which I believe to be incontrovertibly true. He has never wanted his family dead, despite having both the resources and skill to ensure they would be if that’s what he desired, but no. He’s angry that he’d inherently felt more loyalty to them than they had shown to him; frustrated that their choices post-Kaller did not align with his expectations of their choices, disheartened that they hadn't initially recognized to his choices to be ones made outside his character, and Crosshair now eagerly rebuffs their every excuse. Reference the spoken: “They don’t leave their own behind… most of the time.” . . . “You tried to kill us, we didn’t have a choice.” . . . “And I did?”

And follows the: “We’re loyal to each other, not some empire.” . . . “You weren’t loyal to me. I was one of you. You may have forgotten, but I haven’t. And it’s why I’m going to give you what you never gave me: a chance…” conversation. (Just stab me in the heart and twist the knife around, Jennifer!!!! Ouch!!! I'm still not over this!)

Was this his plan? To lure his brothers back to their home, and indirectly beg them to join the empire? To offer them the chance to join the ranks of those who have relentlessly hunted them, in the hopes that there might be some semblance of safety in conformity? To reunite the elite squad that they were in the days of the Republic (the original elite squad of which Rampart is trying to replicate with tactically inferior recruited bodies), simply for the safety that joining the empire could potentially promise? Is this the first demonstration of Crosshair using hostility to shield those he cares about from the callous clutches of the empire that he’d become painfully familiar with?

Regardless of the still-unexplained motive, Crosshair’s plan fails. Hunter has either become, or has always been, as protective of his family as Crosshair is stubborn, and he would never willingly subject his brothers (and now sister) to a life of committing abhorrent war crimes in the name of an Emperor who rose, uninhibited, to extreme and unnatural levels of power whilst abolishing the Republic of which they'd previously served. That’s not what their squad was made to do, despite Crosshair trying to convince Hunter perhaps maybe it was.

Unsurprisingly, Crosshair’s pitch falls on deaf ears, even despite killing his elite squad as an offering of trust. Once the training droids have been taken care of and the fray had subsided, Crosshair stands to find Hunter now has a blaster pointed directly at him, as does Wrecker— (Echo and Tech, curiously, keep their weapons pointed away), and the tables have quickly turned. Hunter begins his own plea to his brother, and it leads to a very ambiguous admission. Hunter: “Crosshair, forget the empire. This isn’t you, it’s your inhibitor chip.” Crosshair: “Wrong. I had my chip removed a long time ago.”

What degree of this admission is true? All of it? Parts of it? None of it? Was Crosshair only told that his chip was removed during one of the apparently many augmentations he’d been subject to? Was it removed and replaced with an alternative? Or was it truly extracted, and his questionable actions have been entirely his own? If so, was it the fall of the Republic that spooked him enough to join the ranks of an unknown empire? Did the thought of disobeying orders bother him enough to sacrifice the family dynamic he’s always known, and replace it with a safe sense of conformity? And if this is the case, was missing all of the shots he’d aimed at his brothers, a veiled display of love?

Atop the water hours later, Tipoca City has fallen. Due to their imminent death, Crosshair and his squad have been forced to work together to survive. Tech makes a lingering comment about Crosshair’s unyielding personality being outside of his control, and it’s still ringing in our ears at this point because it implies that a lot of this misunderstanding may just be because of how strongly Crosshair forms opinions, and how only one of his brothers understands that about him. Omega is mid-drowning trying to save her droid friend, Hunter is .4 seconds away from leaping into Kamino’s frigid and turbulent waters to try and retrieve her… and we see Crosshair grab his rifle. This is a shot, of any, that I would expect him to miss— water both impedes and shifts the trajectory of a projectile and mathmatically accommodating for this would take some serious, well thought out calculation; the only usable light for aiming is from the burning remnants of their home, and the container in which Crosshair is perched heaves and tips with every wave.

But he doesn’t miss. He, again, demonstrates that he can make any and every shot he wants to. He lands his shot on AZI’s chest (not dissimilar to where he shot Wrecker, on an obviously smaller scale), and pulls Omega from the depths of the water. Upon turning to see his brothers poised and ready to shoot him if they deemed the need appropriate, I think Crosshair realizes how monumental the fracturing of their squad was. They have no trust left for him. His actions, powered by an inhibitor chip or not, quickly led them to believe he was not the person they knew him to be. As much as he desperately wanted to them understand how powerful the control of the chip was, they didn’t. And I think this moment robs Crosshair of some of his anger and resentment he harboured toward them, and reaffirms that his only option now is to follow the path he was first influenced to follow, regardless of if it’s what he wants now or not. He then chooses abandonment. He chooses to be left stranded on that platform, likely aware that the potential he’d perish there was high. His separation was now his choice.

Let’s move on to Season Two! Episode 3, appropriately named “the Solitary Clone”, indirectly shows us more about Crosshair than I believe any previous episode ever has. Crosshair’s marksmanship is, once again, on full display as he takes down an old separatist tank with one shot (I’m still reeling over it, ok? That shit made me horny). And I can’t move on from this episode without also mentioning how it ended— we know Crosshair has respect for Commander Cody, that was demonstrated by his willingness to follow Cody’s command while he rebuked others’ in the Skako/Anaxes arc. I think it’s also apparent by the return of his notorious sarcasm, that Crosshair is happy to see a familiar face, one of which he may have previously deemed a friend. Cody, in return, places tidbit of trust in Crosshair (I’m also going to link this post in case anyone is curious about my thoughts on Cody’s initial comments). Not only does the commander inch toward the precarious conversation about “going rogue” and the Order-66 debacle, but Cody lets Crosshair take the lead after their shuttle crashes on Desix. “Trust me,” Crosshair begs, and Cody accedes.

They gain access to the strong hold; Crosshair, Cody and Nova (RIP) struggle only mildly with the droid forces ("Droideka's."). Crosshair demonstrates more inhuman trigonometry abilities and immaculate skill by using those mirror pucks to shoot around corners. Cody saves Crosshair’s tushy when a Commando droid gets a little too close to the sniper. Crosshair lowers his weapon at Cody’s request while they negotiate with Tawny Ames, a motion he had otherwise refused earlier in the episode (the civillians they come across behind a closed door— Cody lowers his gun and reassures them, Crosshair does not.) And when the Empire shows its true colours by demanding that Cody renege on his promise of peace and assassinate the governor, Crosshair does not hesitate to answer the call.

Now superficially, this act would appear as nothing more than a repeat of his crimes on Onderon, or Crosshair simply “following orders” as he had previously developed into a sort of mantra. But I think it’s much more layered than that. I think Crosshair recognized that Cody would be subject punishment did he not comply, a notion reinforced by his extended time at Rampart’s elbow, where it was regularly displayed that clones were of little significane and use to this new military regime. What would happen to Cody as a result of his disobedience? Would he simply be demoted from Commander? Would he be court-martialed and questioned? Detained and imprisoned? Killed? Is this why Crosshair took action into his own hands, and “did what needed to be done”? To protect Cody from the repercussions of disobeying a direct order? Or, more harrowingly and something that I am more inclined to believe, was Crosshair protecting Cody from the poignant shame and self-hatred that he knew the Commander would feel if he DID comply? Was Crosshair unwilling to let the mind of another clone be tainted by the emotionless demands of the empire, so he took the action upon himself? Was his objectively unnecessary and cruel attack, an action of deep seated respect and appreciation? Is this why Cody's comment about living with the consequences of their decisions affects Crosshair so deeply as they separate at the end of the mission?

Let’s dial back to the debated intention of Crosshair’s shots— are his missed shots deliberately missed? Our next stop on this journey is The Outpost (my personal favourite, and not because of the dreamy, sardonic, bearded Commander Mayday), but because of the overt growth that we see Crosshair attain. (Here’s an analysis I posted a while back about some of the messages I think the writers were trying to convey via symbolism throughout Crosshair's episodes to this point). If you've read it and even partially subscribe to my theory, then we can agree Crosshair’s mentality has been shifting little by little since we saw him last, and his attachment to Mayday (and the adjacent benefit that Crosshair rediscovers in companionship and brotherhood) is proof of this. So here’s what happens— raiders make it inside the perimeter of the Outpost thanks to limited man-power and degrading equipment. Crosshair heads directly to where he knows he can play to his strengths: high ground. He’s taking quick and careful aim at the retreating insurgent when the nearby shuttle explodes, and something peculiar happens. Whether it be the blinding flash of the explosion magnified significantly by his riflescope that had caused him such immediate discomfort, or something more (chip alert? Maybe? Or residual effects of having it augmented so many times?), but Crosshair’s subsequent shot is not of his regular quality. He hits his target, so I am not deeming this as a shot missed, but Crosshair has a track record of “one-shots” or “kill shots” of which this is not.

I’m inclined to ramble on for centuries about this episode because there is simply so much development, growth, and symbolism that occurs in those 28 minutes— it’s truly a masterpiece in story telling, but I’ve deviated too far from the intention of this essay (novel) so let’s trek forward.

Let’s get to Tipping Point, and what I would deem to be his only failed shot (and the implications of what it might mean). Crosshair has been sedated, interrogated, injected, neglected, confused, and abused since arriving on Tantiss. (You guessed it, I also have an analysis of this episode, structured a little differently than my previous but still helps to break down what I deem to be the motives behind his actions). Hemlock first attempts to bribe Crosshair with his freedom in exchange for information on his brothers, and as such, divulges his true need for Omega. Crosshair, who has never really had the chance to bond with her like his brothers have, refuses to provide any information. And why? Having only a surface level relationship with Omega, and having rebuffed her advances for companionship several times, why would he protect her in the face of imminent chemical torture? Because it directly protects them, and they are no longer being hunted by a squad of recruited bodies lead by an angry brother... but by a twisted and cruel doctor who's methods were proven unorthodox and tortuous upon immediate introduction.

Upon awakening from another round of interrogation, Crosshair understands the time to act is diminishing quickly, as is his ability to refuse Hemlock the information he wants. Each interrogation leaves him physically and mentally weaker; the time is act is now. He shoots and kills the pair of troopers, as well as the interrogation droid, with no difficulty. He stuns Emerie the scientist (possibly recognizing her clone accent for what it is, thus opting not to kill her?), steals her access card, and stumbles from the room. His body is no where near recovered from whatever toxin that droid injected him with, and he staggers through the unknown halls. Quickly coming across a pair of troopers guarding a doorway, the next shot is the only one that I believe he truly missed, and understandably so. It lands on the wall between their heads, and Crosshair quickly realizing his failure, shoots them with the following two rounds.

While missing that shot is largely inconsequential to the overall story, I think it’s an important anecdote for his character growth. In that moment, Crosshair is both physically weakened and mentally desperate to get a message to his brothers, and it’s the combination of those that had his aim faulty. He’s found himself nothing more than a man broken… stripped of the celebrated titles he’d once possessed and mentally mined until simply raising and aiming a blaster, a motion he’d once found more innate as breathing, was a motion difficult for him. He's forsaken his family, lost his purpose, been rendered nothing but an experiment and a tool.

So to summarize this egregiously long essay of Crosshair’s character, I’d like to reiterate that he is human. As we all do, he has faults. A lot of his reasoning is arguably flawed. He makes poor decisions, often in haste without considering the ripple effect it may have. He is extremely stubborn, and he does not communicate well. And there are things he’s done and decisions he’s made that I can not personally elucidate and would love to openly discuss with other Crosshair enthusiasts (example, trying to incinerate his brothers in an ion engine— did he assume Hunter would double back again, and this is Crosshair’s attempt at forcing them into the open? Or is this one of the moments when he cannot fight off the chips control?). You don’t have to like him. You don’t have to agree with him or anything he says. You don’t have to like me or agree with anything I say, but as we head into the third and final Act of this remarkable story, it is worth determining which of his actions are superficially misunderstood, and which have a deeper meaning that a casual viewer might simply overlook.

Thank you for attending the Ted Talk that no one asked for.

Holly ♥️

**forewent the taglist as this is not my typical content

#Crosshair character analysis #character analysis #long post #starqueensrandomthoughts #the bad batch #tbb #bad batch #tbb crosshair #Crosshair tbb #batch batch Crosshair #Crosshair bad batch #please don’t attack me lol

213 notes · View notes